


To Find A Lost Brother

by Barbara69



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Torture, Tortured Aramis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:25:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 59,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5210960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan ride to Douai to retrieve Aramis from the monastery, only to find that Aramis is not there, has never been there at all. Obviously, Aramis never reached Douai. Despite knowing there's something amiss, they have to return to Paris without their fourth. Do they have to go to war without their brother or will they be able to search for him? And if so, will they find him in time? Meanwhile, Aramis is on the verge of losing his life.....</p>
<p>Follows the events of S 2 Ep. 10</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place directly after S 2 Ep. 10, when we see Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan ride after Aramis.
> 
> Slight difference is that d'Artagnan and Constance are not married in this story. To be honest, Constance is not even mentioned.....
> 
> Huge thanks to M_LadyinWaiting(Tanis) who is doing the beta for this story. Again. ;-) Typos and mistakes are all mine!  
> Unfortunately not mine are The Musketeers, they are property of BBC One. However, I borrowed the characters and concept for this work of fan fiction.

CHAPTER 1

Aramis watched the clouds. How they chased over the sky, dragging with them the fading light. Night would soon be upon him, one way or the other. His thoughts wandered back to the day he had last seen the queen and her son. His son. The day he had bid his brothers goodbye. All for one. Later, when he had handed over his pauldron, he had heard some of his fellow Musketeers mutter and wonder what he was running away from, if Rochefort, somehow, had broken him in the end. Whispers, if there was some truth in the accusations brought forward against him. They knew nothing. Knew nothing about him, his reasons, about the bargain with God he had made, a vow he could not easily dismiss. His reasons for going, for leaving it all behind, leaving _them_ behind. Not only his brothers. Some perhaps still saw him as the emotionally damaged man he had been after Savoy. 

No, not broken, not even particularly damaged, but he did have to admit he had had doubts that day. Doubts as to whether this was really a path he could take. In his youth he had known it was not the life he wanted to live, despite the hopes his parents had had for him. He wondered why he'd thought himself more suited to such a life this time around. Porthos, of course, had know, must have seen it in his eyes. His brother knew him too well, better than anyone else, might as well be able to read his very soul. But Porthos hadn't said anything, only hugged him tight and allowed him to go. Not that it mattered now, probably wouldn't have made a difference anyway. Did he wish, here and now, that Porthos had not let him leave so easily? Yes. Maybe. But it was wearisome to muse on these things, Aramis decided, as he watched the clouds forming shapes and figures over and over again.

Here and now....

Aramis looked down at his leg, where the blood had stained not only his breeches, but also the damp earth underneath his legs. He watched the blood trickle down, watched the life leak out of him. Wouldn’t be long now, he knew. He was too well versed in these medical things to trick himself into believing otherwise. Selfishly, he wished his brothers were here. One of them, at least. Savoy hovered at the edge of consciousness; it was not dying he minded so much as dying alone. Had he not been left to die alone enough for one lifetime? Not that he wished this fate on any of his friends, but why? Why was it always him left to die alone in the woods? It did not seem fair at all. 

A breeze swirled around the trees and bushes in the small clearing, rustling the leaves around Aramis, and he saw a bird on a bush a couple of feet away from him, twittering blissfully. No, he scolded himself, he was not alone, not entirely. But no ravens, not yet. “Thank you, merciful God,” he muttered. When the ravens appeared, the end was near. Harbinger of death. But not yet. Athos would pull his comte stare if he could see him now, eyebrow raised in just such a way, one only his brother could manage. 

“Really, Aramis? You would do this to us?”

“The decision wasn't mine,” Aramis whispered. His head snapped up. Whom had he spoken to? Had he really heard Athos' voice or was it just in his head, yet again? Fever caused such hallucinations, he knew that, had experienced enough of such things over the last couple of days. Or had he fallen asleep and dreamed? He looked around, a task which was getting harder and harder to carry out, and not only due to the injuries the torture had caused and left his whole body coated in pain and wounds. No, there was no one. None had come. How could they? No one knew where he was, no one knew what had befallen him. 

He was so terribly tired, and it definitely didn’t help to see all the blood rushing out of him, dripping to the ground, pooling on the soil. His vision blurred and he couldn't see his legs properly anymore. Startled he looked up. Had the sun already started to set? So soon? Yes, of course, it was time for him .... Though his body burned with fever, and pain, he felt freezing cold, felt it in every fiber of his hurting body. A wisp of wind wafted through his sweaty, matted hair and made him shiver. Soon it would be over. Darkness clouded his sight and he closed his eyes for what he knew was the last time. No sense in delaying the inevitable. He was weary to the bone and now, now he could finally rest. One for all..... 

_“Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum, adveniat regnum tuum, fiat voluntas tua ... fiat voluntas ...tua …. fiat ....”_

The marksman’s head started to lower and finally came to rest on his bloodstained shirt. Hence, Aramis didn't see the lone raven that circled just above the tree line, trying to assess if the prey down on the ground was safe to be approached yet. A moment later, another raven had joined the first, and it wasn't before long until they descended from the sky and landed, not far away from the dying man’s boots.

*******

_2 weeks earlier_

Athos spurred his horse, trying to close with Porthos and d’Artagnan who were already almost a mile ahead of him, racing along the way, rambunctious as they were. As the newly appointed captain of the Musketeer Regiment he could not behave as childishly as his friends did from time to time, and the education he had undergone as future Comte de la Fère admittedly helped. Nevertheless, he was not willing to let his comrades reach Douai before him, and he urged his horse on. 

Moreover, Athos mused, technically he was not yet their captain, and Tréville, newly appointed Minister of War, was still responsible for the regiment. There was always hope, though he would never confess it, that Louis, inconsistent and fickle as he was, might decide to appoint someone else to that ministry and Tréville would return as commanding officer of the Musketeer Regiment. Ah, one could hope, but certainly there was no one better suited for the position as minister of war than their captain. Former captain, he reminded himself. 

Louis hopefully had learned something from the affair with Rochefort and would in future take a closer look at whom he filled his vacant positions within the court with. He had heard rumors that Cardinal Mazarin soon would take Richelieu's place in the king's court and heart and would be granted the position of First Minister of France. Athos didn't know much about Mazarin, but both Richelieu and Rochefort had made sure that he was wary of any men coming close to the king. He definitely would have a close eye on the new cardinal at the king's side.

Athos had made up enough ground to close with his companions. Despite the fun both had made of turning their trip into a race, he could see the tension in Porthos' shoulders. He was probably the one out of all of them who missed Aramis to a point where it hurt bodily. All of them had had some kind of family or other, but for Porthos the regiment and his brothers were all the family he had and probably would ever have. Having to let go of one of them, letting his _brother_ go, had almost ripped the big man's heart out, though he would never admit it.

From the bottom of his heart Athos, too, had been willing to let Aramis leave and find the peace of mind the marksman seemed to be in search of lately. Athos knew how the futile love for a woman, and in Aramis' case for a child as well, could cloud ones soul. If Aramis thought he could find peace in a life for God, then he wished him all the very best. But war with Spain was as good a reason as any why they were in NEED of Aramis, of their brother in arms. The time they had served together in the regiment, the _life_ they had shared, made him feel confident that the marksman would not forsake them. At least that was what he hoped. Athos was not happy with the war declaration on Spain, but he certainly was glad that they had a reason to ride after Aramis and bring him home.

They reached the outskirts of Douai in the late evening hours, long after the monks had held their last _liturgia horarum_ and retired to bed. Despite their impatience to get to Aramis, and by dint of Athos' voice of reason, they searched for a place to stay the night before seeking the monastery the next day as soon as the sun cast its first rays over the horizon. 

Soon they found an inn that looked welcoming enough and was not far from the huge steeples that towered over the city and belonged to the grand abbey of Douai. Handing over their horses to a young stable boy, they gathered their saddle bags and made their way over to the entrance of the inn. Given the noise level they could hear through the closed door, the taproom seemed bursting with life. Upon entering they heard snippets of conversations going on in the small room and once more were reminded that technically they were on Spanish soil now. A fact they were not happy about, though it was unlikely that any news of the war declaration had reached this part of the Spanish kingdom yet. Shortly after they had sat down at the last vacant table, the innkeeper came over and greeted them.

"How may I help you, messieurs? Do you require a room for the night, or merely a meal?" The innkeep put a hand to the back of Athos' chair.

"Both," Athos replied, taking off his hat, "and bring a bottle of your best wine." He squinted his eyes at the short man, one could even say in a rather unfriendly way. "And I don't mean the swill you serve your usual miscreants." 

Porthos put a calming hand on Athos' shoulder, smiling brightly at the innkeeper. “What 'e meant to say is we'd be glad to pay a little more for one of your best wines, the ones you'd store away for special occasions,” and after he had squeezed Athos' shoulder lightly, added, “we well know it's not easy to acquire enough good wine to fill all those thirsty souls.” He winked once more at the innkeeper before he turned his gaze to Athos, warning him with a glare to keep his mouth shut. 

“Very well, messieurs, I have a room big enough for three, with two beds, so you'll have plenty of space for a good night's sleep. Water and towel at your disposal. I'll bring stew and bread. And the wine,” he added, quickly glancing towards Athos, before he bowed slightly and retired to the kitchen.

"What?" Athos, staring at his hat on the table, felt Porthos, as well as d'Artagnan, glaring at him. 

“What do ya' mean with what? Can't you be a little less snobbish when confronted with inferiors?” Porthos growled.

“Are you calling me snobbish?” Athos' voice had a dangerous edge to it.

Before Porthos could answer, d'Artagnan intervened. “It's been a long day and you're both tense with the expectation of reaching Aramis. As am I, but it will not get us to Aramis any faster if you two start a fight over nothing.” D'Artagnan looked tensely from one to the other. “Just let it drop.”

Athos scrutinized the younger man for a moment with cold, unfathomable eyes, before he uttered, “ _Bon d'accord._ ” 

Porthos nodded once in acceptance of the Gascon's words, but didn't add anything to Athos' comment. He knew that Athos missed Aramis as fiercely as they all did, and his appointment as commanding officer and the responsibility for the garrison surely didn't help to ease the strain on the older man. If Athos' speaking became cutting and sardonic, meant to sting, it was most often a sign for the walls he raised to keep himself from being hurt. Athos certainly was not as sure as he wanted to make the others believe that Aramis would really return with them, that much Porthos understood. 

The innkeeper came back with a bottle of wine and three cups, putting everything down reverently, before he backed off again.

D'Artagnan grabbed the bottle before Athos could so much as reach for it. The young man uncorked it, filled all the cups with the dark red liquid and then raised his own, declaring “To Aramis, for tomorrow we'll bring him home.”

Porthos raised his cup as well and nodded, the downwards pointing corners of his mouth reflecting the seriousness of it. “Aye. Where he belongs.”

Both Musketeers looked over to their leader who had not yet grasped his cup or otherwise moved, his eyes fixed on the goblet in front of him.

After what seemed like a long time, Athos finally lifted his cup as well. He looked first d'Artagnan and then Porthos in the eye. “I hope it was right to come after him, but it's damn time he comes home.” He gulped down most of the cup's content, and when he finally put the cup back on the table with a thud, he announced, “I might not have to shoot him after all.”

When d'Artagnan couldn't decide if Athos referred to Aramis or the innkeeper, and it showed on his face, Porthos let out a guffaw and slapped the Gascon on the back. “'s good stuff, I'm sure this 's not the last bottle of wine we'll have tonight.” 

The maidservant brought the promised stew and Athos immediately ordered another bottle of wine, not without explicitly pointing out to her that it had to be the very same vintage as the one they already had.

The evening went on while they consumed what food had been brought, not really paying heed to what they ate, and mused about what Aramis might have done in the short time he had been away from them. Well into the third bottle of wine and with no food left on the plates, they decided to turn in and get some sleep so they could rise early and be at the abbey with the first light of day. The innkeeper caught Porthos' gesture and hurried over. 

“Messieurs, how may I serve you?'

“If you would show us the room for the night, good man,” Porthos declared, rising from his seat. 

“Of course, please follow me.” The man shuffled to the back of the room where a small stairway led up to the first floor.

The brothers followed and, once upstairs, were pointed to a door on the right. It was indeed not a small chamber they entered but a room big enough to host two rather sturdy looking beds as well as two small chairs, a trunk beneath the window and a small table where a pitcher with water and a basin offered a place to wash. 

“There is a candle on the table, if you need more, it costs extra.” The innkeeper hesitated, as if he wanted to add something but was unsure if he should do so. Having made up his mind, or so it appeared, he once more addressed the men in the room, placing himself on the threshold, ready to leave. “If I might ask, messieurs, you are the French King's Musketeers, are you not?”

“We are. Is this a problem with you?” Athos replied.

All three men were instantly alert, their hands drawn to their weapons as if simultaneously guided by some invisible power, once more aware that they were on Spanish soil. Even though great parts of the population were still French or of French origin, there were a lot of Flemish people who still would not accept that their land belonged to Spain now, and their hatred for France, in their eyes responsible for their fate, was as big as their enmity with Spain.

“No! Not at all,” the innkeeper hurriedly assured, “I just wondered if there is a reason for French Musketeers to come this far north. I hoped that maybe King Louis might be willing to negotiate with Spain over the Flemish territories. Not everyone here is happy to have to bow to King Philip.” The last words were spoken with disgust and the man looked as if he might spit on the floor to emphasize his statement. 

Athos relaxed slightly, dropping his hand down beside the pommel of his rapier. The innkeeper seemed to be a man not too happy with the current political situation in this province, but that was none of the Musketeer's business. “We are here on a private matter, not at the behest of King Louis.” 

“But maybe you know something about the king's plans? There are rumors that he is inclined to take back what belongs to him, travelers tell of a war declaration on Spain. Have you heard about this?”

So much for that, Athos thought and looked over to his companions. Both were still tense and alert, though it looked like there was no imminent danger other than a dissatisfied innkeeper hoping for news.

“We have no such information, Monsieur. If there is nothing else, we would like to retire now, we have to get up early tomorrow.” 

“But of course, forgive me for holding you up.” The innkeeper stepped back and closed the door.

The Musketeers looked at each other. They were not sure what to make of this, but it bid fair that the news of the war declaration had already reached this part of the land as well, which could be a threat to them, depending on who they encountered.

“Maybe Aramis has already heard of it and has his belongings packed to return to Paris,” d'Artagnan suggested and grinned to lift the solemn mood. “Didn't you say he would come if he knew? It would keep us from having to beg.” 

Athos looked from d'Artagnan to Porthos. The latter bore a slight smile, undoubtedly thinking how lucky it would be if Aramis would already awaited them with packed saddle bags at the gate of the abbey. Then his face turned more serious and he looked to Athos. “I'm not happy with this news of the war declaration already spreading wide and far. As soon as Aramis has packed, we're leaving Flanders for good.” 

Athos nodded. He had never intended to stay longer than it would take to convince and retrieve Aramis.

Porthos bolted the door while Athos and d'Artagnan removed their weapons, doublets and boots. D'Artagnan launched himself on one of the beds and propped up his head with his arms. He looked up to the ceiling and inquired, “Should we keep watch or trust the bolt on the door?” 

Both Porthos and Athos heard the tiredness in the young Gascon's voice, after all it had been an exhausting week and a long day. They shared a quick glance, enough to convey their thoughts, and Athos declared, “I'll keep first watch, Porthos will take over. You have third watch.”

D'Artagnan yawned and his answer was unidentifiable, something between “All right” and “Good night”, but it didn't matter anyway.

Meanwhile Porthos had climbed into the other bed, heaved his body to lie on his left side, facing d'Artagnan, and closed his eyes. Not one minute later Athos heard the regular breathing of both men and decided to blow out the single candle that lit the room. He silently dragged a stool to the window and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible without being in danger of falling asleep. With his feet propped up on the side of d'Artagnan's bed he looked out into the star-lit sky. The moon was bright enough he could see the shapes of the buildings surrounding the inn, and in the distant the steeples of the Douai abbey. He wondered what Aramis was doing at this very moment, if he would be getting up soon for matins to sing the Te Deum Laudamus or whatever it was the monks did when they gathered after midnight to sing the first praise of the day. He would not survive one single day as monk in a monastery, Athos mused, but then he had never had Aramis' faith. On the other hand, the life of a soldier seemed not so different from that of a monk. Aside from the fact that they served two very different lords, both lives demanded discipline, devotion and unwavering loyalty. But he was sure that serving the Lord Aramis so devotedly believed in was probably more promising in the end than serving Louis; it definitely comprised far less killing and dying, of that he was sure. 

Athos sighed audibly, wishing he had brought a bottle of wine up to the room. He let his thoughts wander, back to a couple of days prior, and wondered if he had been able to make his way to the crossroads sooner, if Anne might still have been there. Maybe she had not waited for him at all, maybe she had teased him to stab his heart one last time. But her glove, now safely stowed away in his doublet, had been there. Maybe, maybe she had waited for him, looking down the road hoping to see him come. Alas, he would never know. It was unproductive to ponder 'what ifs', he chided himself and didn't know where the sentiment came from.

When he could no longer keep himself awake, Athos walked over to the bed Porthos slept in and shook the bigger man by the shoulder.

Porthos, trained on the streets of Paris, and with skills honed by years of soldiering, came awake instantly and only needed few seconds to know where he was and that no danger awaited him. He rubbed his face and sat up, then nodded to Athos and silently climbed out of the bed to make room for his captain.

Athos dropped onto the bed, immediately aware of how alluringly warm it was, and closed his eyes.

Porthos stretched his muscles in front of the window, his joints creaking, and looked out into the still dark night. When he turned to look over to the two beds, he heard a soft snoring. The big man sighed and dropped down on the stool Athos had vacated earlier, also propping up his feet on the bed d'Artagnan was sleeping in. He hated night watches, but if they were on a mission and camping outside, there was at least the fresh air and the sounds of night which kept him awake. Being on guard in the middle of the night in an inn was boring and dull. He stared out of the window.

When d'Artagnan came awake it was to the face of Porthos only a couple of inches away from his own and he flinched. Dawn was already bathing the room in a diffused light.

“Sorry to wake you, but if you take watch for an hour or so, I could get another handful of sleep.” Porthos looked apologetic, but tired.

D'Artagnan instantly sat up and assured Porthos that he would _of course_ take his part of the watch, muttering under his breath that his brothers should stop treating him as a baby. He crawled out of the bed, tripped over his boots and quickly turned towards the other bed to see if he had woken Athos. The older man only shifted in his sleep and d'Artagnan moved to the window to look out at the beginning day.

D'Artagnan didn't have to wait long before Athos woke, the older man was wide awake in an instant despite the fact that he had had only few hours of sleep. A fact d'Artagnan envied, for since his childhood days he had always had problems getting out of bed, especially after too little sleep. Both men made use of the chamber pot as well as the cold water for a meager morning wash, and then finally woke Porthos.

Instead of spending time with breakfast or pleasantries they paid the innkeeper, retrieved their horses and made their way to the abbey. The huge abbey gate was still closed when they rode up only a few minutes later. The Musketeers dismounted and Athos used the big, ornamented doorknocker to make their presence known to whoever was detailed to guard the gates. 

Shortly, a small window opened and they were inspected briefly before the monk demanded, “What do you want?”

Athos, no friend of needless pleasantries anyway, replied, “We are here to see a comrade of us, his name is Aramis, but he also goes with René d'Herblay.” 

“Wait a moment, please,” the monk told them and closed the small window, only to open the gates a moment later and invite them in. 

They led their horses into the courtyard, surprised by the vast expanses of the abbey once they were inside the walls. They had already guessed, given how high the steeples reached into the sky, that the Abbey of Douai must be one of the richer abbeys in this part of the country, but what they found was not only a big church but also many buildings and much agricultural land. 

“I'm sorry, but I have never heard your friend's name, nor have I any knowledge about his admittance to this order, but I will ask our prior if he knows the one you seek. Please wait here.” The monk nodded once, crossed the courtyard and disappeared into one of the bigger buildings.

Stunned, the Musketeers gazed after the monk until he entered the building. That was not the answer they had expected, but given the size of this monastery it probably was not unusual that not every monk knew the names of newcomers, especially if the abbey was also a shelter for pilgrims, which was the case here. 

“Do you think he gave them another name? Not that I could think of a suitable one,” Porthos asked his friends, “or maybe he came here as a pilgrim? Do they register the names of pilgrims as well?”

Athos shook his head, having no answer to either question, but d'Artagnan offered a reply. “Maybe he really was afraid we would come after him and gave a false name?” The young man looked to and fro between his companions, adding, “But he must know that we would not surrender so easily.”

“If he thought he could fool us with something like that, his mind must be more muddled than I thought.”

“Let's wait until the frater comes back, Porthos, I am sure the prior knows of him, no reason to worry,” Athos replied, though he could not even convince himself. Without having to vocalize it aloud, all of them felt the same familiar feeling that something was not right here. 

They shuffled nervously for a couple of minutes. Their horses, seemingly picking up the nervousness of their riders, also started stamping their hooves and shaking their manes, now and then yanking at the reins. Finally, two monks came to join them, one of them the frater who had let them in, the other one definitely not Aramis as well. Seeing two men leave the building, for a split second the Musketeers hoped that one of them was Aramis, but their hopes were crushed immediately upon realizing that both men were much smaller and broader than their brother. 

When the first man had reached the little group, he greeted them with a slight nod and a warm smile. “I am Père Clément, prior of this abbey and I hope I can help you. Frère Lucien here says you are looking for a friend of yours?” 

“We are looking for our _brother_ , Father,” Porthos growled, miffed that the prior spoke of Aramis as a friend rather than the brother he was to them. A fact the monk couldn't be expected to know, but Porthos obviously wasn't willing to concede.

“We are King's Musketeers,” Athos interrupted quickly, “I am Athos, this is Porthos and d'Artagnan. We are here in search of our brother Aramis, who sought admittance to this order a couple of days ago. We have urgent business to discuss with him and would appreciate it if we could talk to him.” Athos, having had his turn at being surly, knew it was important to be as polite as he could manage in this surreal situation, certain they would have no success with unfriendly words or threats.

“I fear I must disappoint you, we have not had any new admittances in the last couple of months, nor do I know of a man named Aramis.” The prior watched his words hit home, assessing the signs of impatience and distress he saw often in the eyes of abbey visitors these days.

“What do you mean, you have not admitted anyone within the last couple of months? Did Aramis tell you to turn away anyone who came asking for him?” Porthos' growl was threatening enough to make a lesser man than the prior quiver, but Father Clément was not a man to flinch in the presence of the enemy.

“That cannot be,” d'Artagnan spoke up, “he explicitly told us he was retiring here, in the Benedictine Abbey of Douai, or do you have another monastery here?” D'Artagnan glanced over to his brothers. They had missed checking to see if there were more monasteries of the Benedictine order located in or around Douai.

“No, we are the only monastic confraternity here in Douai. There is a small convent of the Order of the Sisters of Mercy here in Douai, but the next monastery is in Méricourt, a Franciscan order.”

“Maybe he gave you his proper name, René d'Herblay. Or, “Athos paused briefly, “he might have given you any name. If Aramis is determined to see through what's in his mind, he sometimes takes unconventional ways.”

“He is lean and tall, dark hair and our age. Handsome face,” Porthos added, hoping his description would jog the prior's memory. “He must be here.” 

“Monsieur, I can only repeat what I have already said. Your friend is not here. We have not had anyone seeking refuge with this order within the last two months. The last person who asked for shelter and is still here is Monsieur Laquerièrre from Brest, and he is not a soldier but a merchant. We had some visitors, pilgrims, who stayed one or two nights, but none remained, and none of them were young enough to be the Musketeer you seek,” Father Clément declared, looking apologetically from one Musketeer to the other.

“But he must be here! He left Paris almost a week ago. Where else should he be?” Porthos was getting louder, demanding answers the prior obviously could not provide.

Athos took another step forward to stand between Porthos and the prior. He feared Porthos would do something rash, given the despair one could hear lingering in his voice. “Father, I am sorry for being such an inconvenience to you, and please forgive us if we appear indignant, but it is really of the utmost importance that we speak with our friend. There is urgent business on behalf of King Louis waiting for us in Paris, and we have to make haste to return, but we were in expectation of meeting our brother here. And returning together with him. He explicitly told us he was coming here and we have no reason to believe that he has changed his mind without letting us know. So you must understand why we are irritated that it appears he is not here after all.” 

“I can see your disappointment and if it helps,” Père Clément's expression radiated sympathy and understanding, “you are welcome to join us for laudes and look for your brother among us. All the monks will gather for the prayers with the exception of our abbot who is bed-ridden at the moment as well as two elder brothers who are in the infirmary right now. You may check the quarters for the pilgrims as well if you so desire, but I can assure you once more that no one has sought shelter or admission here for over eight weeks.” The church bells started to toll, calling the monks for laudes. “I really am sorry, messieurs,” Father Clément added.

Athos looked to his companions. He saw the expression on Porthos' face and knew the bigger man was willing to search in every nook and cranny for Aramis, while d'Artagnan looked rather like the lost puppy his brothers used to tease him with since he had joined them. Athos knew it was up to him to make a decision and addressed the two monks again. “Thank you, Father. We will head back to Paris.” Athos inclined his head slightly and put his hat back on. 

“Do you want to leave a message for your friend, should he arrive here at a later time?”

“No, thank you, there will be no need for that later. Adieu.” Athos turned to make his way out of the abbey and found himself faced with an angry d'Artagnan. Porthos' mein was downright threatening.

“We cannot simply turn back,” d'Artagnan hissed. “He ought to be here!”

Athos glared briefly at the young Gascon and replied in a dangerously calm voice, “We can and we will,” and before d'Artagnan could even open his mouth to protest, he added sharply, “And before you say anything else, _that_ is an order.” Expression blank, eyes fixed straight ahead, Athos stomped past his companions to make his way through the gate, dragging his horse with him. Without looking back to verify whether or not his friends joined him, he mounted and spurred his steed to a trot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the three remaining Inseparables headed back to Paris with hopes of receiving news of their missing friend's whereabouts, Aramis tried to breathe through the pain. The ongoing beatings made it harder and harder to get air into his lungs, his breathing organs simply refusing to work properly, and with his hands bound behind his back he couldn't even try to protect his lungs or kidneys from further abuse.

Before long, Athos found himself wedged between Porthos and d'Artagnan's horses but covered a couple more yards impassively, staring ahead along the path in front of him as if unaware of the other men's presence beside him. With an angry snort, Athos reined in his mount eventually, coming to a halt in the middle of the road, and addressed his companions without even turning his head. “Say it.” 

“You are not serious, are you?” Porthos growled, turning sideways in his saddle to look fully at his captain who continued to avoid his friend's gaze. “You know something must have happened if Aramis is not here.” 

From the other side, d'Artagnan tried to reason with the older man as well, sounding desperate and hurt. “We cannot simply return to Paris, Athos!” The Gascon couldn't believe Athos would simply turn back and not investigate Aramis' whereabouts, perhaps even use his new position to see it through. 

Athos bobbed his head from right to left and back, darting both his companions an icy stare, his blue eyes almost grey, cold and dead like a winter's sky, causing a light shiver to run through the other men. “Do your really believe I made this decision lightly? Do you think I'm happy with this?” he snarled, his voice like a dagger scratching over glass, sharp and raspy. “We are at war and we have an obligation to the king. We cannot spend our time chasing expectations. Accept that fact. He is not here and we must return.” 

For all the cold rebuff in the other man's voice, Porthos could hear bitter disappointment, could catch a glimpse of the conflicting emotions in the unfathomable blue of the older man's eyes and knew there was much more behind the harsh words of their captain. “We know that. But I also know that if Aramis is not here something must have happened to him.” Porthos knew what he was about to say was not fair, but added it all the same, “You might be willing to do so, but I won't give up on him. I'm not gonna leave him behind, wherever he is.” 

For a moment, Athos let his anger overshade any other feeling and sensitivity battling in his heart and his glare would have sent any Red Guard running; Porthos, unaffected, gave back glare for glare. The tension was almost palpable, and without a single twitch of muscle or vocal utterance, a fight erupted between these two, fought not with weapons but with unchecked emotions, silent accusations and evaporated hopes.

Meanwhile, the sun had risen higher in the sky casting its rays over the land, filling the air with warmth and life as the temperature continued to rise, chasing away the chill of the morning. However, around the Musketeers, frozen in their motions like a painted on tableau, the atmosphere remained chilly, the pointed silence occasionally disturbed by a soft whicker and the thud of a hoof impatiently hitting the ground. 

Another minute passed without anyone speaking until Athos finally announced, “We ride back to Paris and report to Tréville. Then we can consider the problem and decide what to do about it.” He shifted slightly and looked to d'Artagnan. 

The young man had kept quiet, watching his companions' emotions clash in a battle of empathy and willpower, had not dared to speak into the screaming silence between them. And now he found he had no words to give voice to what whirled in his head. Looking into his mentor's eyes muted the anger and protest he had felt not a minute ago. 

Athos opened his mouth to say something, then changed his mind and only nodded minimally. No further words were needed, each man seeing the desolation in the other one's eyes. Athos spurred his horse and d'Artagnan and Porthos followed. 

The captain led the way through the outskirts of Douai and back onto the road to Paris. They didn't speak for over an hour, each man dwelling on his own moody thoughts, glumness hanging over them like a thick blanket. On their ride their eyes casually roamed over the passing landscape, not only to watch for danger, but rather in the hope of seeing the familiar shape of their absent fourth.

Finally, d'Artagnan couldn't stand the silence any longer. “What do you think happened? I don't believe he changed his mind or lied to us about where he wanted to retire.”

“He would not lie to us,” Porthos responded determinedly. “He knows we would _never_ hold him back, there was no reason to hide anything from us. Something must have happened.” 

“A mugging?” D'Artagnan suggested and couldn't suppress the shiver that run through him. He had experienced how quickly even a bystander could lose his life in a robbery gone wrong. He and his father had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And it had cost them dearly. What if something similar had happened to Aramis? 

Athos eyed d'Artagnan with an enigmatic look on his face. “Aramis is a highly trained fighter. His skills are exceptional, and I damn sure hope he made good use of them and ensured he stayed alive, whatsoever he was confronted with.” The older man didn't know if his words had the intended effect of steering d'Artagnan's thoughts in another direction, away from the bitter memory of his father's death and what might have happened to Aramis in a similar situation, but the comte had to admit it was a weak attempt. Since they had no idea where the regiment's former marksman was or what might have befallen him, they couldn't rule out even the worst possibilities. “If he is not in Douai, then he must have been prevented from going there by something unforeseeable, either on his way here or when he was still back in Paris.” Athos thought for a moment before he added, “But in that case, he would have sent us a note.” 

As soon as the words were spoken, the three men looked at each other, subconsciously all sitting a little straighter in the saddle, thoughts whirling in their minds. Maybe he _had_ sent a note, but they had been so busy immediately following the war declaration there had been no spare time to even pay a visit to private quarters; they had all been bunking at the garrison. If a note had gone to headquarters, it might well lie undetected among all the missives and letters constantly being delivered for Tréville. Their former captain had spent all his time at the Louvre, discussing strategic plans and war tactics, leaving the garrison office abandoned. With a glimmer of hope, they urged their horses in a working canter, eager to reach Paris.

*******

While the three remaining Inseparables headed back to Paris with hopes of receiving news of their missing friend's whereabouts, Aramis tried to breathe through the pain. The ongoing beatings made it harder and harder to get air into his lungs, his breathing organs simply refusing to work properly, and with his hands bound behind his back he couldn't even try to protect his lungs or kidneys from further abuse. Maltreating and beating a man four to one without even giving the opponent a chance to defend himself certainly was neither fair nor honorable, but that was not what Aramis' mind tried to focus on through the haze of ache. He was sure that there had been more he wanted to remember, beside the fact that he was on his own, if only he could concentrate hard enough to grasp that other thought again.

He knew no help would come, no one would search for him, he was utterly on his own. So why should he not just give in to these men? What purpose was there in withstanding when no help would come? There had been something, but it was getting harder and harder to remember. Another blow robbed him of every remaining breath in his lungs and he was not able to draw in air, however hard he tried. His muscles no longer responded to his will, they had succumbed to the searing pain, and his vision grew black. When he shakily breathed air again and his eyes focused, it was a dirty boot his mind noticed, and he remembered why this boot was here and who it belonged to. He heard someone groan, long and low, and then, with a touch of surprise, realized that it was him. 

While he was aware of the men talking to him, asking questions he refused to answer, he had stopped listening. What he heard was his heart throb in his ears, a constant rush of blood that filled his hearing, so it was a fruitless effort, anyway, trying to understand what they said.

Why withstand them anymore? What for? Try to remember! His friends were miles away, unaware of his situation, they believed him to be safe and content in the Abbey of Douai. _Thud!_ Another heavy boot connected with his torso, and he felt nausea rise. Focus, _focus_! If what he had overheard was right, it was very likely the Musketeers were already marching towards the Spanish border. The distance between him and them increasing with each day; while they marched south he had been brought further north. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow coming, and with the next blow he heard his ribs crack and an explosion of white hot pain blackened his vision anew. This time he let himself drift into the luring darkness, embracing it, and his last thought lay in a short prayer to not wake up again.

*******

Athos, Porthos and d'Artagnan reached Paris in the late afternoon. They had ridden hard and with minimal rest, driven by the hope of getting answers to their growing unrest once they were back in the capital. On their way they had discussed what their first steps should be; first and foremost they had to report back to the garrison. If Tréville had not received a note they would head to their private quarters and meet again at Athos' place after each had searched his quarters. Throughout the ride back they had tried to convince themselves that they would find a note and soon know where Aramis was, but none of them really believed it. Deep inside an uneasy feeling remained.

The moment they rode through the archway of the garrison, exhausted and tired, they became aware of Tréville on the balcony, watching them. His face displayed surprise upon seeing them return without the fourth. They dismounted, handed over their worn out horses and strode to the stairway leading up to the office of the commanding officer. 

Tréville walked back into the office, aware of the grave mood seemingly surrounding his returned men.

Porthos closed the door and lined up with Athos and d'Artagnan, both standing in front of the desk Tréville had placed himself behind. It was so natural for all of them to report to Tréville as their captain that no one realized the inconsistency of their behavior.

“So, he did not come back with you.”

“No. He was not there.”

Once more, surprise flickered on the minister's face. He had firmly believed to see them return as a quartet again. Hearing now, instead of an explanation why the marksman had refused to come back, he hadn't been in Douai at all, confused Tréville. 

“What do you mean, not there? Did you not ride to Douai?”

In a less grave situation Athos would have rolled his eyes, but he restrained himself, answering instead. “Of course have we been to Douai, but he is not there, never was there at all.” He heard Porthos shuffle beside him, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw d'Artagnan fidget. Not for the first time he wondered why he always remained stoic and calm in situations like these, when the others did not. “We had hoped he might have sent a note, either to the garrison or to one of our quarters, with information about his change of plans.” When Tréville didn't respond, Athos added, “Did you receive anything?”

The moment the words where spoken, Porthos understood the stupidity of the question. He looked to Athos and d'Artagnan and saw the same understanding dawning in their eyes. Of course Tréville had not received any kind of note; he would have been waving any letter the moment they had ridden into the courtyard. Or would at least not have asked about the whereabouts of Aramis if he had already known. Porthos looked back to Tréville in time to see him shake his head. 

“I have not received anything, though I must admit I am a little behind in sorting through every paper on this desk. But I have skimmed them all, and I am sure there was nothing from Aramis.”

“Thought as much,” Athos murmured, and then, louder, “Permission to return to our private quarters, sir. It has been a long day. “ 

Tréville scrutinized him. “You know I'm no longer responsible for the garrison. You are the commanding officer, the appointment by the king is just a mere formality.” Though Tréville had been captain for long enough he could not fail to see the haunted look in the eyes of his former second-in-command. Or the desperation on Porthos' face and the worry radiating from the Gascon. “Return to your quarters and report back for morning muster. There is a good deal of work awaiting you.” Tréville came round his desk doing something he had never done before, at least not that any of them could remember. He put a hand on Athos' shoulder. “Rest, all of you. Tomorrow we prepare for war.” Once more he let his gaze swipe over the three men before him. “Dismissed.” 

Porthos and d'Artagnan nodded, turned and made their way to the door.

Athos didn't move, looking Tréville levelly in the eyes. He waited until he heard the doors shut behind the two soldiers to address the man again. “I'm not fit to lead anyone, I've already told you.”

“Do you think I begged to be appointed Minister of War? I'm a man of action, not suited to arguing political tactics and national sensitivities for hours. We all have our duty.”

“France is fortunate to have you in the position. There is no one better suited.” There was a short pause. “We all know how it went when you declined the first offer.” No smirk or displeasure graced Athos' face, it was offered in a neutral tone.

“Yes, we do.” Tréville squinted, wondering if he should feel offended. But Athos was right, after all, and after a moment he added, “Do I have to add anything to what you just said?” 

Athos raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“You have just explained for yourself why I made you captain of this regiment.” Tréville smiled slightly, for he could see the exact moment the other man grasped the meaning behind the words. 

Not only had Athos played into Tréville's hands with his argument, but he saw now that the older man's decision was right, no matter how hard he tried to refute acceptance of that fact. Athos shook his head. “You are wrong here. Nevertheless, I will try to live up to your expectations.”

“You don't have to live up to any expectations. Just do what you have always done.” Tréville looked serious again. “I'm sure your brothers will tell you sooner or later that it is not me who is wrong.” All three of them, he almost said, but stopped himself in time.

Athos glared at his former captain, but then his features softened as a smile ghosted his lips. He bowed his head in acceptance and left the room.

Tréville's smile grew until it had covered his whole face. Then he remembered that there still was one of his men missing, and his mien became more serious again. He sighed and turned towards the desk. He had an hour before he was expected to meet with Cardinal Mazarin at the Louvre, and he would make use of that time to sort through all the papers on his desk again. Maybe he _had_ overlooked a short note from Aramis.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had waited for Athos under the archway and they headed off together, soon separating to turn to their respective quarters. Porthos, who had his rooms at the garrison, had already made a quick search there while Athos was with Tréville. His way now led him to Aramis' old quarters. If not his friend, then maybe he might find at least a hint there of the whereabouts of the marksman. 

As they had agreed earlier they met at Athos' place. Neither Athos nor d'Artagnan had received a note or any hint at all.

Porthos reported that when he had asked the landlady if Aramis was still there, she told him, with surprise on her face, that Monsieur d'Herblay had left Paris five days ago, or at least moved out. A fact she had thought his comrades would be aware of. Porthos had explained why they were searching for Aramis and the landlady had shown him to the rooms Aramis had rented. They were not yet hired again and showed no signs of habitation. The personal belongings of Aramis, what few he possessed and had not taken with him, were stowed away in a small chest Aramis had left with his landlady.

They sat around that chest now, which contained nothing they had not seen before and offered no new information, other than the fact that Aramis seemed to have had every intention of leaving his former life behind and retiring to a monastery. It left them clueless.

While Athos uncorked a second bottle, d'Artagnan voiced a thought into the gloomy mood hanging in the room. “Maybe, before he finally renounces the worldly life, Aramis has decided to, um, say goodbye to his, err,” the young man struggled to find the right words, “love life?” When he saw the looks on the other men's faces he quickly added, a light blushing crawling up his cheeks, “I don't mean brothels or some such, but maybe he is bidding farewell to one or more of his amorous, ah, escapades?” 

Stunned silence filled the room. Porthos mien changed and he rolled his eyes. “I'll kill him!”

Athos shook his head slightly. “No. The whole affair with Rochefort and the queen has affected him to the core. If he'd had the chance, he would have said goodbye to the queen and her son. And not in _that_ way,” Athos added, quickly glancing to their youngest, “he was true with his intentions.” He looked thoughtful for a moment before he added, “He might have sent a farewell note to one of his ladies, though I'm not sure there was one after the queen.” The captain's face changed with the thought of that ill-fated incident back at the convent, and what serious consequences it had entailed.

“There was Lady Marguerite, so maybe others as well,” D'Artagnan suggested. 

“No. Lady Marguerite sadly was different.” Athos had seldom approved of his friends' chosen ones, but he knew Aramis deeply regretted starting up an affair with the young woman, and his reasons for it. “And I think she was the only one.”

“What else? What else do we have?”

“Maybe there is some truth in what you said. Maybe he needed some time to say goodbye to his former life. Time to pray at the graves of those whose deaths he felt responsible for. In his eyes, that would be quite a number.”

“He was never responsible for any deaths of those dear to him!” Porthos sounded offended on behalf of Aramis.

“I know, but he had a different view on these things, despite what others said.” Athos knew of such things only too well; guilt, shadows, ghosts. Deaths one felt responsible for, deaths that haunted one each night. He could write volumes about how guilt could weigh one down, about the emptiness that could not be filled, could not be numbed, no matter how many bottles of wine one swallowed. Aramis had found another way to keep these ghosts at bay, but that didn't always work either. Yes, Athos knew of the devastation a death could bring to a man's soul.

“Adele, Isabelle, Marsac, Lady Marguerite,” d'Artagnan listed with his fingers, “and certainly there are more.”

All of them thought back to Savoy. The young Gascon did not know much about it, only what had occurred when the Duke of Savoy had visited Paris and what Aramis had shared with him then. He had not seen Aramis back then, after his return from Savoy, never had had to look into those eyes. Porthos and Athos shared a glance. Yes, that was a possibility and something Aramis would burden himself with, on top of all the guilt he felt after the recent events.

“Depending on our assignments for tomorrow, we'll start with the graves we know of in Paris and inquire if anyone has seen him around there recently.”

They had a goal now they could work with. Not a real trace, but it was something, and as long as it kept them occupied and prevented them from further musings, they would gladly take the chance. If their inquiries turned out to be fruitless in the end, well, then they would have to think about another strategy.

It was already after midnight and the long ride, the troubled minds and the amount of wine they had had, took its toll. Athos and d'Artagnan shared the small bed the comte called his own and Porthos made himself comfortable on the chair. They would have to get up early anyway, so it would be sufficient enough for a couple hours of fitful sleep.

*******

Aramis woke. It felt like crawling up from a deep, dark abyss and the process of waking was long and strenuous. Once his mind was clear enough that he _knew_ he was awake, unfortunately his body began to dialogue with him again, and his mind perceived pure agony. Aramis kept his eyes closed, trying to register where the pain came from, which parts of his body hurt, where he was injured, but soon realized that there was no difference. His whole body seemed to ache, a constant throb of pain vibrated through him. He tried to move his hands, but there was nothing. Had he forgotten how to move hands? Did one explicitly have to _order_ his hands to move? He knew he was thinking nonsense, but couldn't stop. _Focus_. He tried again but he felt nothing, there _was_ nothing. Then he remembered that his hands still were bound behind his back, and that his blood circulation must have stopped. He tried to lift his right arm a little to see if he was right about the bound hands, and immediately regretted it. The spike of pain that exploded behind his eyes was a new sensation to him, despite thinking he had already experienced a lot of wounds and the corresponding pain in his life.

He didn't know how long he lay there, waiting for the pain to recede back to the constant throb, but finally he was able to open his eyes to slits. He saw a campfire a short distance away, two men sitting around it. The fire threw moving shadows into the dark, illuminating only a small area in the clearing where they had set up camp; what lay beyond the flickering glimmer of light remained behind a wall of darkness. The men had their backs to him, so he couldn't see their faces. Two men. His mind tried to impart something to him, because it constantly produced this number – two, two, two. Oh, he knew what it was. There should be more, it had been four of them who had captured and tortured him. Where were they? He moved his eyes without any shifting of his head or body, knowing now that any adjustment of any parts of his body would be countered with ineffable pain. From where he lay he couldn't see much and his view was limited by the natural radius of his eyeballs, but on the ground, further away from the fire, there lay what looked like two bundles. Maybe two of his captors slept. Certainly they must be tired from torturing him for hours. He let his eyes close again. 

How long had he been here now? Four days? Five? More? He couldn't remember. He knew his body was starting to fade, his strength of will to weaken, and soon he would either succumb to their torture or die. He hoped for the latter. It would be a hard-won death, but a relief nonetheless. His thoughts wandered to Rochefort, the traitor, and what he had told them about the inhuman torture he survived in the hands of the Spanish. And in the end, his torturers had succeeded in turning him against his king and country. Would he suffer the same fate? Would he be strong enough to endure such torture? Or would he be like Rochefort, in the end? Right now he was not sure how much more he could bear.

His captors had disclosed information to him, albeit unintended, unnoticed. Though they always conversed in what he thought must be Flemish and only spoke French when they showered questions on him, one of them seemed to be a Spaniard and obviously didn't speak their language. Therefore, two of them sometimes conversed in Spanish, not much, but it was enough for him to find out a little more about what their plans were. And he had learned about the war with Spain. A shock, though not really unexpected. War. The Musketeer Regiment was very likely one of the first regiments that would march to the border, was probably already on its way. His brothers would have to face war, death and despair, and he was not there. He felt an overwhelmingly deep regret. Not because it meant there was no hope of rescue for him, rescue he didn't expect anyway, but regret that his friends would probably died on far-away battlefields in Spain without him.

Thinking about the Inseparables' fate, and without realizing it, Aramis drifted back to unconsciousness, unaware of the fact that in this very moment, when the dark void brought a short relief from the agony in the marksman's body and soul, many miles away in Paris, his brothers forged plans to get him back. At all cost.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Musketeer. Ready for another round?”
> 
> No, Aramis groaned inwardly, but managed a crooked smile. Or at least he hoped it was something near to a smile, for it seemed he had lost any control over his muscles.

They reported at the garrison for morning muster, aware of sidelong glances from other Musketeers who obviously had expected them to come back as a quartet again. Most of the tasks that day related to the preparations for war and the garrison was teeming with Musketeers. Porthos and d'Artagnan were detailed to palace guard, Athos had to see to the paperwork at the garrison.

In the evening the friends left without dinner, none of them hungry and all eager to start their search. Athos had put together a list he handed out now, giving each of them two or three destinations to seek out, and everyone headed off in a different direction.

D'Artagnan was the first to come back to the garrison, seating himself at their usual table in the courtyard, face expressionless. A moment later Serge shuffled over to the table, putting a plate with bread and cheese in front of the Gascon and a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder, but the latter kept staring into the distance, eyes showing blank despair, and he neither drank nor ate. 

Athos walked through the gate a short time later, immediately seeing the lone figure of d'Artagnan sitting at the table. When the young man looked up there was no need to ask how his protégé's search had turned out. Athos sat down opposite d'Artagnan with a gravity far more distinct than his usual sobriety, putting his hat on the table. “Nothing,” was all he could deliver, but it was enough.

Later, Porthos just dropped down on the bench beside d'Artagnan with a huff, his mien speaking volumes. Eyeing each other, all shook their heads and they sat for awhile without talking.

Serge brought more food and wine, scolding them like school boys that it would not help, whatever they were doing, if they didn't eat, and they started picking at their food. Athos shoved his plate away, turning, as usual, to drinking. They discussed what else they could do, though none of them had any new ideas.

“There's no use running through Paris looking for him. Aramis left Paris for Douai a week ago. Believe me!” Porthos said, forcefully pushing his plate away. “You know him. And his landlady confirmed it.” 

“We should go back to the monastery once more, maybe he was only delayed and has arrived now,” d'Artagnan suggested in a voice that reflected his low mood. “We should check.”

Athos, shaking his head, replied, “We have no time to ride back again, all leave has been canceled. Besides, I'm sure if he was not there a week ago he will not be now.” Looking up to his brothers, he added, “He could be anywhere.”

“Yeah. We may as well start searching all of France,” Porthos growled, grabbing his tankard and gulping down the rest of its content in one go. 

There was silence again between the Musketeers at the table. 

Tréville, who had not yet moved to his new quarters in the ministry for his own private reasons, had stepped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air and sort his thoughts. He stood silently overlooking the courtyard. He had too many things to organize, too many decisions had to be made, and naturally, Louis thwarted decisions, rearranged plans and generally made life a living hell. But Tréville had known this would be the case. Everyone bent to the king’s will, like it or not. The minister had not intended to eavesdrop, but clearly heard the men’s discussion down at the table in the quiet of the garrison; their subdued mood almost palpable in the night air. Tréville stood for a while, listening to the flow of gloomy conversation beneath, before retiring to his old office, returning to the maps and papers on the desk. By morning, the king required an elaboration of the defense strategy for the northern border and the coastlines. If he was lucky, he might get three or four hours of sleep that night.

*******

The next morning, Tréville handed over the affairs of the garrison to Athos and left for the Louvre. It still felt wrong that it was just the three of them, but the brothers carried out their tasks and did what they had been assigned. New recruits had to be instructed and the garrison hummed with activity, everyone could see that the regiment was preparing for war.

Tréville didn't return to the garrison that evening, very likely still stuck with the cabinet, conferring about political consequences, allies, war tactics, fund raising for the war. Athos didn't envy him but worked until past midnight himself; it was plainly ridiculous how much paperwork the captain of the regiment had to deal with. He was tempted to throw everything into the fireplace. His mood dropped further once d'Artagnan and Porthos came back from another search through Paris. In the absence of a better alternative and even though they knew it was fruitless, they had sought places they knew Aramis had frequented, and even visited a couple of widows the marksman had mentioned, but had found nothing. It was exasperating.

They shared a bottle of wine in the captain's office, every man brooding and none of them speaking much. Finally, they turned in after Athos announced that they should get some sleep. The next morning would bring more recruits to the garrison and he needed both Porthos and d'Artagnan to show them the ropes.

*******

The following day, Tréville returned to the garrison after midday, walking straight to his old office, expecting to meet Athos there. He knocked and entered, only to find the office abandoned, and turned around, stepping out onto the balcony again. He let his eyes roam over the courtyard until he spotted Porthos who was with a handful of new recruits.

“Porthos!”

The big man stopped in his explanations, turning to look up to the balcony.

“Do you know where Athos is? And d'Artagnan?”

Porthos nodded and waited for further instructions.

“I need to talk to you. All three of you. Now.” Tréville waited for a short nod of confirmation before he walked back to the office. He didn't have to wait long until he heard boots outside and a moment later there was a knock on the door. “In!” he shouted. 

Athos led the way in but remained at the door, closing it after his friends had entered. Only then did he join Porthos and d'Artagnan who stood before the desk. It was such a familiar scene that all of them were aware of the gap in their midst.

Tréville, scrutinizing each of them, cleared his throat. “You have two weeks leave to search for him, and that's all I will grant you. Not one day longer. The king agreed that I retain responsibility for the garrison until you are back. I was able to convince him that the new captain of his regiment needs to be away on an urgent private matter.” Tréville's voice was sharp as he carried on, “But I will not cover for anything beyond these two weeks. If you do not return within a fortnight you will be declared deserters. All of you.” Tréville looked sternly at each of the men. He knew there was a slight chance that they would rather desert their king than their brother, but proof had to be found if danger had befallen Aramis at all. For all the minister knew, the marksman could live content in a monastery of his choice, or wherever he had decided to spend the rest of his life, and be oblivious to the worries he caused his friends.

Porthos and d'Artagnan's surprise showed clearly on their faces while Athos, simply raising an eyebrow in response to what they had just heard, made a better job of hiding his reaction than his companions.

Before any of his men could voice a thought or an expression of gratitude, Tréville continued. “The new First Minster of France seems to be a most circumspect man. He was finally able to convince the king to make all the necessary preparations a war with Spain brings, _before_ we march. We will need at least another eight weeks until the first troops are ready to leave for the borders. France needs to call upon her allies before everything else, we must see who will stand beside us and support us. We must recruit more men and acquire more supplies, above all artillery. We have not yet heard back from the Spanish Crown, though it's unlikely that King Philip will answer even one of the points on Louis' long list of demands or make any expected formal apologies in order to prevent this war. I think Philip knew very well what was in store for Spain if Rochefort failed, even the Spanish king must be able to predict Louis' reaction.” Tréville paused, looking up at them again. He saw hope and determination in their countenances, but he also saw some of his best soldiers, honorable men, and he was sure they would not abandon their king, would not abandon him. Knowing he could rely on them, even if it would break each man's heart if they had not found their missing brother within these two weeks, he reiterated again, “Two weeks, that's all I will grant you. Then the regiment needs its new captain.” 

“Thank you, minister,” d'Artagnan said, not minding that his emotions colored his voice.

“You have our word, we will be back in two weeks time at the latest,” Porthos added, voice firm and resolute, the intention that lingered in his words clear. They would be back in the given time, but they would bring Aramis with them, there being no other option for the big man.

Tréville nodded. “Athos, if you have one more moment.”

D'Artagnan and Porthos knew they were dismissed and immediately moved, leaving the office to make their way towards the stables and prepare for the journey. 

After the door had closed, Tréville turned to Athos. “I need you here. Your men need you here. I can no longer take the responsibility for the garrison while I am busy with matters of state. Already, this war occupies more of my time than I have ever spent with the paperwork for the garrison, and the war has not even started yet. If it were up to Louis I would spend all day in cabinet meetings with his ministers. Two weeks is all I can give you.”

“You can count on me. We will be back within a fortnight.”

“I suggest you make Bauer your second-in-command. He has long served in various regiments and knows everything there is to know about operating a garrison. He can take over the command while you are away.”

Athos nodded. Bauer would have been his first choice anyway, a man who acted with circumspection and was a good soldier. “I will ask him right away. Maybe you can then go through the details with him?”

Both men knew what Athos meant to say. He would not spend any minute longer at the garrison than it would take to gather his weapons and mount the horse Porthos would already have bridled for him. 

“Agreed,” Tréville answered and looked at Athos for a short moment, saying nothing, but eyeing his former second-in-command as if he might discover what was hidden behind the stoic calm once again displayed. 

Enduring the examination with an unmoved mien, Athos thought the look on Tréville's face was one he wished his father had revealed, even just once, while dealing with him. A look featuring esteem, pride, fondness. But then the moment was gone and Athos was not sure if there really had been anything at all in the minister's face.

“Be safe.”

“Thank you, minister.” Athos tilted his head slightly and made his way to the door, putting on his hat again. On the threshold he stopped for a moment, half-turning to Tréville. Opening his mouth to say something, he found he lacked the words for what he wanted to express, and only nodded once more. Then he was out of the office, hurrying down the stairway.

Tréville stood a moment longer, motionless, staring at the closed door, turning over in his mind these last ten minutes. Then he sighed almost inaudibly, returned to his desk and continued sifting through the documents while waiting for Bauer. He didn't want to leave Athos any more papers than absolutely necessary.

Athos had a short but productive conversation with Bauer, the latter making his way towards Tréville's old office afterwards while Athos headed for the stables to see how far his comrades were with preparations for the journey. Their horses were saddled and d'Artagnan was in the kitchens with Serge gathering a small supply of provisions while Porthos was checking their weapons. 

“All settled with Tréville?”

Athos nodded. “We can ride as soon as d'Artagnan is back.” He saw that his saddlebags were already packed with everything he would need for the journey. Porthos had also made sure that muskets, pistols and enough balls and powder were on hand, and Athos started stowing away his share of weaponry. 

When they left the garrison Tréville was standing on the balcony, watching them ride away. He remained long after the dust their horses' hooves had whirled up had settled down, gazing at something only his eyes could see.

*********

Aramis came around spluttering and grasping for air and instantly began to shiver. Cold. The water numbed his hurting body for a short moment, but when his mind registered that he had been splashed with ice-cold water, the burning sensation of pain crawled back into his body, spreading everywhere. He was lifted rudely, coming to stand on his feet and probably would have fallen over again immediately if his body had not been supported on both sides, strong grasps digging into his flesh, adding more pain.

“Musketeer. Ready for another round?”

No, Aramis groaned inwardly, but managed a crooked smile. Or at least he hoped it was something near to a smile, for it seemed he had lost any control over his muscles.

“This could be over quickly, it's in your hands.” The man in front of Aramis spit on the ground, dragging a dirty shirtsleeve over his mouth afterwards. “You are pretty persistent, for a man of your appearance.”

In another situation Aramis would have been offended. He knew he was not as bulky as Porthos and had a rather romantic aura about him, or so he liked to believe, but mere stature disclosed nothing of the strength and fortitude of a person. A mistake a lot of his enemies had made, and dearly regretted, and just now he was willing to prove this point to these miscreants. 

“Let's see how much more pain you can endure before you break, shall we?”

Oh, that. Did the man expect an answer from him?

Before Aramis could decide whether or not he should add something to this one-sided conversation, one of the men beside him shifted his position, fumbling behind the back of his prisoner.

Suddenly Aramis' arms fell limply to his sides, sending a wave of relief through his body when the strain on his shoulders finally eased, but it was a short-lived relief. When the blood circulation started working again the feeling quickly changed, replacing it with pure agony, ten thousand tiny needles pricking his skin, awakening the wounds on his arms and shoulders. Aramis ground his teeth to keep himself from making noises of distress, but couldn't prevent a small groan escaping his pressed lips. 

The man in front of him smiled, nodding to the one who had cut the ropes. Both men who held Aramis up dragged him to a nearby tree and pulled his arms back left and right around the tree trunk, binding his hands together again with unnecessary harshness. They made sure to pull tight, the rope digging deep into the flesh, so it would keep Aramis upright, not matter if his legs supported him or not.

It spoke for itself, Aramis thought, that he wasn't sure if his ribs were broken or cracked, he only knew that his rib cage constantly thrummed with pain, but if he didn't shift his body, it was bearable. The pain caused by his blood running through the veins now, was easing off. His face hurt, and his shoulders hurt, and when he had spit out the cold water he had swallowed during his crude awakening, it had been tinged red. He could not come up with an explanation for where this blood came from, and right now he didn't want to think about it. The headache that had plagued him since the day before yesterday made thinking difficult anyway. Aramis looked up when he saw a shadow on the ground coming nearer, trying to brace himself for whatever came next. 

The man, from his behavior and demeanor most likely the leader of this bunch of brutes, planted himself in front of Aramis, a diabolical smile on his face, playing casually with a long knife in his hands.

A rather dirty and rusty looking knife, Aramis observed, and probably not very sharp at that. One cut would very likely be enough to infect him, and gangrene would be inevitable. He tried to swallow but his mouth was as dry as a fallow field in the summer heat. 

“Not smiling anymore?”

_No, obviously not_ , Aramis answered inwardly and waited. 

“Tell you what, Musketeer. I ask and you answer. Any question goes unanswered, you get a cut. Sound fair?” The man grinned, throwing the knife a couple of times in the air and skillfully catching it again. “Shall we?” 

Trying to stay as stoic and calm as he could muster, though it was very likely a far cry from the mien Athos was able to display in similar situations, Aramis waited.

“How do we get in.” More a statement than a question.

“I repeat once again, Monsieur, just in case you have problems understanding the meaning of it. I. Am. Not. A Musketeer.” _Anymore_ , Aramis added silently, eyes fixed on his captor. The blow to the face came, unexpectedly, from the side, causing a series of painful events, all related to the various wounds and aches in his body. When his vision cleared again and the shock waves of pain receded slowly, Aramis brought his head up, spitting. He knew where _that_ blood came from. “It doesn't change the fact.” 

The leader of the men stepped up to Aramis quickly, grabbing a handful of hair and yanking the Musketeer's head back.

Unfortunately, Aramis had to admit, the man was a couple of inches taller, so Aramis had to look up at the face not a hand's breadth away from his own. He saw the dangerous glimmer in the man's eyes and smelled the unpleasant body odor, a mixture of sweat, dirt and bad breath. Well, by now he certainly didn't smell all too good himself, but that! That was just additional torture.

“Don't think you can play games with us, _Musketeer_ ,” the man accentuated disparagingly, “we know you are. We have seen you in your pretty uniform, guarding the palace, smugly flouncing around in the streets. We have seen you _inside_ the Louvre, conversing familiarly with the king and queen. Do not take me for a fool.” His voice had a dangerous edge to it now. “It was fortunate for us that we saw you leave the garrison on your own, fool. Just because you are not wearing your fancy pauldron doesn't change anything.”

And it wouldn't change anything if he tried to explain what the designation of his journey had been and that he was _not_ with the Musketeer regiment any longer. He could deliver the information they strove after nonetheless, Musketeer or not. He had to change his strategy, not that he had formulated one at all until now. His only goal had been to survive, though that goal had become less and less worth striving for recently. From what these men had revealed, willingly or not, he was starting to get an inkling of their plans and intentions. He thought that, at least, he could try to render one last service to king and country and try to stall for time until it was too late. And then die like a true soldier of France.

The man stepped back, nodding once more to one of his henchman who ripped Aramis' shirt open, revealing the bare skin beneath. Along with the shirt, the golden chain and jewelry Aramis wore were torn off; together with the chains, Aramis' most precious possession, his lucky charm, the gift from his queen that had seen him through many dark hours and difficult times, fell to the dirt, unnoticed. 

“I can break a lot of your bones and cut away piece after piece of your wonderful skin, and still you would not die. But the pain will be beyond description. Or,” the man paused, just because he could, “or you give us either the information we want or don your uniform and do the job yourself. Your choice.” 

While Aramis pondered these words, the man brought up the knife quickly, slashing the skin on Aramis' breastbone. Nothing dangerous, but deep enough to hurt and bleed.

Despite the pain, Aramis had to suppress a smile. With enough of such gashes on his body, infection would set in within a couple of hours, and without proper help, which he didn't expect from these men, he would quickly succumb to fever, gangrene and blood poisoning. It was only a matter of time to keep them going long enough before they would realize their mistake. Death was alluring; they wouldn't be able to do anything about it, and would be none the wiser afterwards. Time to challenge them.....

“You will never be able to get into the palace.”

Slice, pain.

“You'll get us in.”

“Never going to happen.”

Cut, slice. More pain.

“How do we get in?”

With his head throbbing and his overstretched shoulders aching, Aramis tried another smirk, but wasn't sure about the outcome. He felt the blood from his chest trickle down over his stomach, seeping into his breeches, and a boring pain had settled down at his side, but at least he was still able to support the weight of his body with his legs. They had not buckled yet, though he could feel tremors running through them.

“You'll never be able to get anywhere near the king or queen.” That was a lie, but they needn't know that.

This time the man made sure to slit deep and slow, from Aramis' aching ribs down his belly. And then again, deep and slow. “I have all day, Musketeer.”

It burned and despite himself, Aramis sucked in air sharply. He didn't dare to look down, but he could imagine the bloodied mess he would find there. “That suits me fine, I had not planned anything today anyway,” he panted, managing to make his voice sound bored. The blow to his stomach came out of nowhere and felt like being dealt with a sledgehammer, sending waves of pain through his whole body, and he was sick before he realized it. There was not much in his stomach to come up other than bile, but he retched for a while before his muscles relaxed again. He hated to have no way to swipe his mouth with a sleeve or something, he could only try to gather a mouthful of salvia to get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. Looking up, he saw the three men smirking and laughing at him.

“Still not enough, soldier?” And just because they could, one of them slapped him in the face, hard.

“I thought we'd only started.” Aramis croaked with provocation sparkling in his dark eyes, bile still burning in his throat. Porthos was right, he really tended to be kind of self-destructive from time to time. Athos obviously was not the only one amongst them with a death wish now and then. He was beginning to take Athos' point in that matter.

Cut.

Wrong answer.

Questions. Answers. Cut. Cut. Cut.

Slit. Slice. Slash. Searing pain.

Darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took a moment for Athos to comprehend that the thud came from Porthos' saddle bags that had escaped the bigger man's grasp and now lay forgotten on the ground. They had, finally and out of the blue, a clue, however small, and it was so much more than Athos had expected when he had steered his horse towards the inn.

The three Musketeers urged their horses through busy alleys, eager to leave the city limits so they could finally spur their mounts into a gallop. They still had no idea where they should start their search for Aramis, or if it was even wise to head for Douai again. Time was of the essence, and not just because Tréville had managed to wheedle two weeks out of the king. They were convinced that Aramis would not change plans without letting them know, even if he was not a soldier with the regiment any longer. But he had not; therefore, he must be in danger – or worse. 

Once they were through the city gate, they chose the same way to Douai they had taken four days prior, this time riding with less enthusiasm and anticipation, though swiftly nonetheless, their bearings taut and chastened. Along their way every now and then they stopped at an inn to ask the innkeepers whether one of them had seen Aramis, but for the sake of a more rapid progression soon this undertaking was skipped. It had been a fruitless effort so far anyway, more important now was to make as much ground as possible before the sun set. Several hours into their journey they stopped at a small creek to allow the horses a short time of recuperation before proceeding, mostly in silence, into the forêt de Compiègne. D’Artagnan, who had been pondering an idea all afternoon, finally broke a long silence.

“Do you remember that innkeeper in Douai where we stayed the night? Who wanted to know if we were Musketeers?”

Athos nodded and Porthos agreed with a short “Aye.”

“Didn't he say something like, 'I wonder what Musketeers are doing this far north'? What if we were not the only Musketeers he had seen recently?” D'Artagnan looked from Athos to Porthos, waiting for a reaction.

Such a thought seemed to not have crossed the other men's mind before, for Athos countered the question with a slight widening of his eyes, otherwise no visible sign spoke of the surprise d'Artagnan's question had caused.

Porthos, not so subtle with his emotions as the older man, furrowed his brow, trying to recall what exactly the innkeeper had said that evening. “You are right, he did wonder aloud if there was a reason French Musketeers were up there, and it could mean that we were not the first.” A spark of hope glittered in his eyes when he continued, “We must speak to that man as soon as we get there.”

Athos, who seldom shared the optimism his brothers displayed, especially when dealing with fellow human beings, looked doubtful. “Aramis was not wearing his pauldron, probably only his rapier. Maybe a pistol. I wouldn't count on the fact that anybody saw the soldier in him.” He knew this was not what Porthos and d'Artagnan hoped to hear, but certainly expected from him nonetheless, no reason to let hope claim their hearts too easily.

“Yes, but you know Aramis! He likes to talk and philander and maybe he told some of the maidservants there that he was a Musketeer. Before he decided to become a monk. No reason to not tell anybody about his Musketeer life.”

“In fact,” Athos muttered, “it would be just like him to flirt with the maids one last time.” He still was not convinced, but in the absence of a better alternative it was their best lead so far. 

Evening was approaching when they neared Rœux and even though no one specifically suggested it, they all turned their horses from the road toward a small inn that lay half a mile away from the main route, a few small shacks and a stable surrounding it. Until now they had not paused or stopped anywhere, none of them hungry or worn out enough to do so, but the horses needed another, longer break from the strenuous ride and water and hay. The sun was setting, sending its warm light across fields dotted with haystacks, coloring the clouds scattered over an endless sky with a soft pink, painting a peaceful landscape that was so typical for this region. But none of the three riders had eyes for it, they saw nothing of the beauty around them, their thoughts occupied with their missing fourth and how they could find him. 

Chicken and geese picked in the corner between the stable and the house while a dog snoozed in the shadow of the well in the yard. They dismounted, looking around to see if a stable boy might come to take care of their horses, or if they needed to do so themselves. Athos removed his gloves and scooped water from the bucket beside the well, washing the dust from his face with a few quick motions. They heard a creak from the stables, maybe from the hinges of the big barn door swinging open now and saw a boy coming from the stables, a smaller boy trailing behind him.

“Good evening, messieurs, shall I see to your horses?”

“Yes. We'll not stay long but the horses need water and if you could rub them down it would be appreciated.” Athos handed over his horse's reins to the boy and removed the saddlebag, d'Artagnan and Porthos following suit.

The small boy, probably seven or eight years old, stayed while the stable boy led the horses over to the trough. The boy gaped up to them, awe in his eyes, and finally seemed to gather enough courage to address the men. “Are you Musketeers? _Are you_?” 

D'Artagnan, reaching out to the bucket Porthos had just abandoned, turned to the boy. “Yes, we are King's Musketeers.” Though it was still nice for the young Gascon to have admirers, he was not in the mood to bother with a curious child right now. He wanted to follow the example of Athos and Porthos, both having washed away the dust from the road and already gathering their bags to make their way over to the inn.

“I knew you were Musketeers!” the boy chimed happily, “You look like real soldiers.” The child smiled brightly, adding proudly “I have a friend, you know, he is also a Musketeer, like you.” He gazed up to d'Artagnan with a look of expectancy. 

D'Artagnan nodded absently, splashing water on his face. “That's great, you surely are proud of him then,” he mumbled, not really caring whom the boy was speaking of, be it imaginary friend, elder brother or maybe a fellow infant who played soldiers with him.

“D'Artagnan, come,” Athos, apparently answering the wine's sweet call coming from the taproom, yelled across the courtyard. He and Porthos had almost reached the door, gesturing their young friend to hurry up and follow.

“He is a gallant Musketeer, you know,” the boy babbled on, “bigger than you and friendly and brave and _dangerous_.” The boy stressed the last word for importance's sake, oblivious to d'Artagnan’s disinterest and happy that he had found someone he could share his story with. 

D'Artagnan shouldered his bags and headed after his brothers, throwing the boy a quick glance. “Then he is really a fine Musketeer, your friend.” He hoped that the boy would be content with that and would return to his older brother or whatever the stable boy was to the young child, the similarity between the two speaking of a close kinship. He had neither the time, nor the desire, to spend any longer with the chattering boy. 

Unfortunately for the Gascon, his newly acquired admirer started to trail behind him, continuing to share stories no one was interested in. “I hope I'll be as brave as him when I'm grown, I also want to be a Musketeer!” Sounding more thoughtful now, the boy added, “But I'm not sure I can because I think you really have to be _very_ brave. When I broke my arm last year it hurt so much and I cried a lot.” 

If d'Artagnan had been paying heed, he would have heard that the boy sounded ashamed for admitting this, but with the Gascon's mind being otherwise engaged, he only nodded a short, absent-minded “Mhmm.”

D'Artagnan reached his companions at the door, Porthos darting him a sympathetic glance. It was not the first time small children had been drawn to their brother. The young Gascon not only appeared less threatening and unapproachable than Athos or Porthos, but was also young enough that one might think he had only just come of age. Which he very likely had, Porthos figured, given how young d'Artagnan had been when he first came to Paris.

The boy ran a few quick steps to catch up with his new acquaintances, unwilling to pass up this opportunity to learn more about these Musketeers. “How old do I have to be to become a Musketeer? And do I also have to be a monk? Because I really only want to be a Musketeer,” he inquired, adding, voice almost inaudible, “Forgot to ask.”

It took a couple of seconds for d'Artagnan's mind to process what the boy had said, but when it finally registered he stopped dead in his tracks.

Athos, who had not really been listening to the blabbing child, stood frozen on the threshold, one foot already inside the taproom, spinning around the moment his mind filtered out the boy's ramblings. Staring sharply at the youngster he demanded, “Repeat that!” 

The boy, suddenly shy and uneasy due to the sudden and unexpected attention of all three Musketeers, remained quiet.

“Speak up boy, what did you just say?” Porthos growled, sounding more than impatient.

“I--, I asked how old ---, err, do I have to be?” the boy stuttered.

D'Artagnan knelt down to be on a level with the child, putting on his most innocent look. “What did you say about being a monk as well as Musketeer? Is your Musketeer friend a monk? Where is your friend now?” 

The tension radiating from the three men certainly made the boy feel uneasy and Athos realized he was holding his breath in expectation of the answer. An answer that could be anything, he reminded himself, from a child with a great imagination to any other simple explanation, but by all means he would clutch at every straw. His impatience grew the longer it took the youngster to answer and he took another step towards him, regardless of the further impact such a gesture might have on the boy.

The child wasn't happy at all with the increased attention from the grown-ups now, despite having all but begged for it not even half a minute ago. His eyes yet grew a fraction larger, though that seemed almost impossible, and he gulped audibly. “Err, he said we could be friends, if I wanted. Really. He is a Musketeer, like you, but will also be a monk, _is_ a monk.” Uncertain if what he said was right or the right thing these soldiers wanted to hear, the boy rushed to get it over with, the words pouring out of his mouth more quickly, “But he will also remain a Musketeer. Or something like that.” The boy hesitated for a moment, thinking about if he'd got that right. “That's what he said. Really.” 

D'Artagnan put a calming hand on the boy's shoulder before he voiced his next question. “Does he have a name, your friend?”

The boy's face lit up, this at least was a question he could outright answer. “Yes! His name is Aramis. He said I should keep his name in good memory.” His eyes remained glued to d'Artagnan's face, waiting for a reaction or the next question. He didn't dare look up to the other two soldiers but was startled by a nearby thud filling the quiet yard.

It took a moment for Athos to comprehend that the thud came from Porthos' saddle bags that had escaped the bigger man's grasp and now lay forgotten on the ground. They had, finally and out of the blue, a clue, however small, and it was so much more than Athos had expected when he had steered his horse towards the inn. “Do you know where your friend is now? When and where was the last time you saw him?”

The boy furrowed his brow, thinking hard, before his face lit up again. “Oh, I remember! He was here the day after the mare had foaled. That's why I had to take care of the horses because my brother went with my father.”

That was confusing, as they had no idea what the absent brother had to do with the new-born foal, but surely the boy's father would be able to tell them the date Aramis had been here. Porthos picked up his saddle bags, darting a thankful smile to the boy. 

“Thank you.” D'Artagnan rose to join his brothers entering the taproom.

The boy, more confident now that what he had to say was important enough to be questioned by Musketeers, spoke again before d'Artagnan was fully through the door. “And then I saw him again the next day. The day after the day after the day the foal was born.” He paused to reflect if he had counted right. When he was content with the result, he continued. “He was riding back but didn't stop here. I only saw him on the road, there,” the boy pointed back to the road they had come from, the main route between Arras and Douai. “I waved, but he didn't wave back.”

“And you are sure it was him?” d'Artagnan inquired.

“Yes, ask _maman_ , I was working on the field with her.” The boy shook his head. “Maybe he didn't wave back because he was not happy that his friends wanted to ride back. He said he was going to an abbey in Douai. That's in this direction.” The boy pointed again, north, and then added respectfully, “That's in Flanders.” 

Athos stepped closer, not caring in the slightest if he might frighten the boy. “What friends,” he barked, glaring down at the child. He saw the boy's bottom lip quiver, eyes widening in fright. Ah, he had never had a way with children, and now was not the time to start caring about such things. 

Thankfully, d'Artagnan knelt again and smiled at the boy encouragingly, tousling his hair. “We’d best go inside and speak to your father.” Though d'Artagnan had directed his words to the boy, both Musketeers understood the subtle message directed at them, turning to finally enter the inn.

“Come with us, will you?” d'Artagnan asked the boy. “What's your name?”

“Jacques.”

“Fine, come along Jacques.”

They followed the older Musketeers into the taproom. Only few people sat scattered at tables in the room, most of them certainly merchants given the way they were dressed in fine linen. One of the seated men rose, interrupting his conversation with a stocky man, and came over to greet them. 

“ _Bonsoir, messieurs_. Jacques, don't bother the gentlemen, go help your brother.” The innkeeper tried to shoo his young son away, but was interrupted by Athos.

“Let him stay, monsieur, we have a few questions and he can help.”

The innkeeper looked slightly surprised, but ushered them to a table, gesturing to them to sit down. “How can I be of help, messieurs?”

D'Artagnan, amused despite his own impatience, watched the youngster try to contain himself. He could just tell the boy wanted to shout at his father, 'These are not messieurs, they are Musketeers!' The boy controlled himself though, either too shy or too frightened of the consequences to interrupt. 

“We are searching for a fellow Musketeer and your son told us that he was here.” Athos explained. “Apparently a day after the mare had foaled, and then he was seen riding back again into the opposite direction a day later. Your son says your wife must have seen our friend as well that day. Can you tell us what day he was here? And if he was in someone's company?”

While listening, the innkeeper's face changed, from curiosity, to lack of comprehension, to understanding. “Ah, I know whom you are speaking of, a very polite gentleman, your friend, he didn't mind our Jacques hanging around him all the time. Yes, he was here, about a week ago. Seven or eight days I would say. Marie!” he yelled and a moment later a petite woman came through the kitchen door, toweling her hands with a cloth.

With the help of the innkeeper's wife, who had indeed been working in the field that very morning, they learned that Aramis had arrived at the inn the same day he had left Paris, the day he had bid them farewell, and had befriended the youngest son of the couple.

“He left early the next morning to ride to Douai, said he was entering the Benedictine Order there, at least that is what he told us, or rather Jacques. The boy hung around that gentleman all the time,“ the woman added, looking fondly at her son. “I have to admit it's strange that he rode back the other direction only a day later, towards Arras, but truth be told, messieurs, these are hard times and we have enough worries of our own to have time to bother about the behavior of sojourners, so I thought nothing of it.” She glanced to her husband, hoping they would not get into any trouble. It certainly was not every day that they dealt with King's Musketeers, and even though the one on his way to Douai had been very nice and kind, these three bore much more earnest expressions and were no less than soldiers in the service of the king. And the king, it was said, was a very capricious man.

“Do you know these men our friend was riding with? Have you seen them before, have they been here as well?” Athos gazed at the woman, hoping to get more relevant information and stressing the importance of his questions with piercing blue eyes staring at her demandingly.

“No, monsieur, I don't think I have ever seen them before, but I have to admit I was not really looking closely at them, and the road is quite a distance away from the field. I wouldn't have seen them at all had not Jacques bemoaned the fact that his new friend was not waving back and riding in the wrong direction, and he urged me to look.” The innkeeper's wife paused a moment to recall what she had seen that day, admitting then that their friend probably had not looked happy about riding back, but hadn't been close enough for her to perceive details. “I recall that I wondered why his horse was tied to the saddle of one of the other horses, and I think your friend sat strangely huddled on the horse, as if feeling unwell or injured, but frankly, I have not thought much about it at all since.” She had the decency to look a little ashamed, though it really was none of her business what travelers did once they had left the inn. 

“How many men were riding with Aramis, do you remember that?” Porthos asked calmly, though his bowels were in a turmoil.

“Four men. Four men and your friend, right Jacques?” The innkeeper's wife answered, turning to her son for confirmation.

The boy nodded excitedly, affirming his mother's statement. 

“But I really can't recall anything out of the ordinary about the men. They looked like everyone else. No soldiers, surely, I can't remember any kind of uniform, and not dressed fine enough to be merchants or even noblemen, as far as I could see. They just looked like anyone,” the woman told them, “I'm really sorry.” 

“One of them had no hair, his head looked like an egg,” Jacques tossed in, giggling a little upon describing the one man who had ridden ahead of the group. Egghead he had silently baptized him that day, and wondered if his newly acquired Musketeer friend had to restrain himself from laughing at his companion all the time. When the boy saw all eyes resting on him, he added, “It looked funny, you know? An egg with eyes and beard.” When none of the grown-ups laughed, he turned serious again, turning his gaze to his mother and trying not to squirm under the sullen looks the two older Musketeers displayed. But then d'Artagnan bent down to him and whispered something in his ear, luring ringing laughter out of the boy. 

“That's something, at least,” Athos stated, referring to the boy's description of one of the men, of course, and not the boy's happy laughter or the roguish look on d'Artagnan's face Athos now studied attentively.

When neither the innkeeper nor this wife could provide more information or contribute to the conversation otherwise, they both retired to the kitchen and brought food and wine for the Musketeers. The three men sat at the table, picking at the food and discussing what they had learned from the innkeepers. It was clear to them that Aramis had not freely joined this group of men, but what their purpose or goal was, they had no idea. They argued awhile whether they should immediately ride to Arras or spend the night at the inn, for evening was already upon them. Porthos voted for riding straight away, not wanting to waste time here at the inn, but in the end even he saw reason that they wouldn't be able to find any tracks in the dark. To the delight of Jacques, they asked for a room and ordered another bottle of wine.

*******

When he regained consciousness again, Aramis realized that he still was bound to the tree, but his legs had given way under the pressure and his body was being kept halfway upright by his arms. And it HURT! He must have fallen unconscious after they had started to hit him in the head and kidneys after every cut to his torso. Without lifting his head he opened his eyes slowly, gazing directly at his chest, or what was left of it. It looked nasty and he felt nausea crawling up his throat, but he saw that the blood had already started to clot. Which was good, on the one hand. Or not? He heard voices and managed to lift his head a little, just enough that he could see the four men sitting a few yards away from him, obviously consuming their evening meal, or whatever. He'd lost any sense of time and couldn't say how much time he had spent bound to that tree. Breathing heavily on account of the painful position of his body, he closed his eyes again, trying to contemplate his situation and block out the agonizing pain.

When they had ambushed him on his way to Douai, he had been totally unprepared and still couldn't believe he had let down his guard to the extent that they were able to overpower him in such a short time. At first, he had been unable to figure out what they wanted with him, none of them offering any explanation. Together they had ridden westwards and then north for a whole day, so by now they must be deep into Spanish Netherlands. _And far away from France_ , his mind supported unnecessarily. After setting up camp he had been given something to eat and drink. The men had conversed in hushed voices in a language he didn't understand, but then he had heard snippets of Spanish between two of them, about war with Spain, the death of a king, allies in Madrid. He had thought then that he was in the hands of Spanish agents who were hoping to get information from him. Information he would not be able to deliver, since there had been no talk of war before he’d left Paris. Had Louis really declared war on Spain? 

The torturing had started the next morning, violent and brutal, and with the questions they had asked and what he had overheard in breaks between the physical abuse, their intentions had become more clear. The plan was simple, if they could see it through.

The men obviously were Flemings and their only goal was the autonomy of Spanish Netherlands, the sovereignty of Flanders. If Louis was killed, it would leave France unstable. With his son, _his_ son, too young to reign, the queen would have to conduct the government affairs for the dauphin, and the queen was from Spain. It wouldn't be hard for her brother to attempt to influence her, and the war would be over before it had even started. The queen would not have much support from her own court, another fact that would play into the hands of King Philip. And whoever this bunch of villains worked for, hired to assassinate the French king, had been promised the independency of Flanders for their efforts, independency from the Crown of Castille. He didn't know much about the history of Flanders, but he had seen the determination in the eyes of his captors. These were people who had been suppressed for too long by foreign monarchs, pawns in the hands of the powerful. Suppression was a dangerous foe and he was their chosen instrument to see their plans through.

He had had something to concentrate on then. He knew no help would come, but he could try to stall for as long as was within his power. They would be none the wiser after they had tortured him to death, and that, for what it was worth, would buy time. Time these men obviously didn't have. It was one last service he could render. Not for France, not for the king. But for his son.

Only, it was harder and harder to endure the torture and bear up against the pain.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan's raised voice garnered attention from other tables, some of the patrons already turning to stare, probably wondering why the Musketeers were shouting at each other, but d'Artagnan paid no attention to them. He glared a last time at Athos and then rushed off, pushing some people to the side who had the misfortune to be standing in the young man's path on his way to the door. With a bang the door closed behind the Gascon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Saint Nicholas Day and I thought instead of treats I put a chapter into Santa's stocking for you. :-)
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has read, subscribed, commented and left kudos to this story so far!!
> 
> Also, the brothers get a bit testy.....

They left the inn at first light and rode back to Arras, searching along the road for anything out of order, for a sign of the men Jacques and his mother had only very vaguely described, for any sign of Aramis. However, they found nothing, not the slightest trace. With the midday peal of bells they reached the city of Arras, hoping to find at least here an innkeeper or publican who had hosted the group and could tell them more about the group's whereabouts or traveling plans. For almost two days they marched and rode through Arras and its surroundings, searching for Aramis and the four men he was accompanied by, asking in taverns, inns, stables, at the market and anywhere else they thought they might find information. They had set their hopes on Arras, simply because they lacked any better alternative. If they found no trace here, they had no idea where else they should turn. Douai was not an option any longer since Aramis had never reached that city, if what the innkeepers in Rœux had observed and told them was true. And yet, after two days, they’d had no success, no one had seen the group or Aramis or at least no one remembered them. It was enough to drive them to despair, though all tried to face each new day with feigned optimism. 

In the afternoon of the third day they reached the northern outskirts of Arras, deciding to stop the search here and try their luck on the road to Amiens. It was then that, once more, they were favored by fortune in a way Athos was inclined to maybe, _maybe_ admit the probability that there really was a God above, a God who looked with favor upon Aramis. They'd found his horse and someone who could tell them more. 

Leading their horses westwards to the crossroads, they passed a smithy about a mile outside the city walls. On the spur of the moment Athos urged his horse into the yard, deciding it wouldn't hurt to ask one last time even if they received only another negative reply. Porthos and d'Artagnan followed their leader into the yard without any comment, though both bore no hope that this would be more successful than all their fruitless efforts over the past days.

A man emerged from the smithy and stopped in his tracks when he saw the new arrivals. “Good evening, messieurs, what can I do for you?” he greeted the riders.

“We are searching for someone and maybe you can answer a few questions,” Athos replied, dismounting from his horse and walking over to the other man.

While Athos talked to the blacksmith who also operated a small inn and stables with horses and carriages for hire, Porthos and d'Artagnan lingered in the courtyard until Porthos wandered over to the stables to look inside. Something he couldn't grasp immediately caught his eyes when he turned to walk back to d'Artagnan. He changed his course and entered the stables, hollering for his two companions only seconds later. 

Now they all stood in front of one of the boxes occupied by a black stallion. 

“It's _Bougon_ ,” Porthos said needlessly, for they all recognized the horse. It was, indeed, Aramis' steed.

The blacksmith, who had trailed behind the Musketeers when they had all but run into the stable, commented, “That one limps. If you want to hire or buy a horse, I have good ones here.” He waived to the boxes on the other side.

“Where did you get that horse? And quickly, man!” Porthos bellowed.

The farrier, a hulk of man, wasn't one bit intimidated, but despite his bulky appearance he was a peaceable man and answered all the same. “A man brought the horse and was in need of a hack, he was not picky about it and I sold him one. It earned me a livre and this horse. It's a fine steed.”

“Who was this man? Was he alone or did you see other men with him?” Athos asked.

“Never seen him before and there was no one with him. That's all I can tell you.”

“What did he look like, can you describe him?” Though Athos had already given Aramis' appearance to the smith, he hoped to hear this very description from the bulky man now.

The blacksmith didn't need to be a genius to conclude that it was likely this horse had belonged to the friend this trio was apparently searching for. Furthermore, he could tell the difference between a simple hack and a steed bred for battle. “It was definitely not your friend who was here and brought the horse. That man was Flemish, big, like him,” he pointed over to Porthos, “Bald head, beard stubble, scar under his eye, and though he spoke a passable French he was definitely from Flanders.” 

That at least was some useful information, knowing that the man the smith described must be the same 'egghead' Jacques had talked about. “Do you know in which direction he rode? Did he say anything about what he needed the horse for or where he was going?”

“No.” The smith looked from one to the other. “But I'd guess, since he paid no heed to the horse, that he simply needed a riding horse to cover a distance not too great, and not at too high a pace. My best guess would be Lens, and then into Flanders.”

Porthos furrowed his brow, glancing to his two companions who surely had the same thought. This information, precious as it was, would take them further north, and back on foreign soil. It was the opposite direction from where they had just decided to go. Once in Flanders, the people there would not be so willing to answer questions from French Musketeers, if they spoke French at all.

“Thank you, monsieur,” Athos said.

The blacksmith nodded, seemingly hesitating for a moment. “There's one more thing. The scabbard the man wore, it had the coat of arms of Arnaud van Oudenaarde, _Duc de Ryselle_ , on it. If this man is in the service of the duke, I would maybe look there for your friend. Ryselle, or as we say here in France, Lille, is only a day’s ride away. Less, with horses like yours.” 

“Do you know more of this duke?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Not much, but I should add, just because that man wore de Ryselle's coat of arms on the scabbard doesn't necessarily mean he's really still in the pay of the duke, or away on behalf of van Oudenaarde.” 

“Thank you for the information, we'll bear it in mind,” Athos replied and mounted, a sign for his companions to do the same. Turning his horse towards the street, Athos looked over his shoulder. “What are you going to do with the horse?” 

The farrier scratched his beard. “From the look of it it's not too bad. If the wound heals there is no reason why it can't carry travelers, though it will surely never be as sturdy as before. If not,“ he shrugged with his shoulders, “I'll have to shoot it.”

“If the wound heals, my brother will want it back. Take good care of it, it will not be to your disadvantage,” Athos replied, then spurred his horse and they left the smithy. 

Again, the Musketeers scanned the passing landscape on their way to Lens, looking for any signs that could hint at the four men Aramis had been forced to ride with, maybe a makeshift camp or some such, but detected nothing. Each of them knew there simply was not enough time to search every road, inn, hamlet and forest or whatever they passed on their way. From the description of the smith they were certain that the man who had sold Aramis' horse was the same one Jacques had described to them, and they hoped the man was still with the group who had taken the monk-to-be as prisoner. That Aramis must be held prisoner was a fact they were absolutely sure of. There was no other logical explanation as to why the marksman might have changed his destination, and the observations the innkeeper's wife had made confirmed their opinion that Aramis was with these men against his will, maybe even wounded. All they could do was hope the blacksmith had a good nose for his customers and was right in his assessment about the route they had taken. 

“What do we do,” Porthos asked, once they passed the city gate of Lens. “Search here or head on to Lille?” He looked over to their captain, waiting for instructions from the older man.

Athos pondered the question for a moment, finally coming to a decision. “Let's eat a quick meal and then ride on. We can camp somewhere on the road to Lille.”

“Should we not ask around here if anyone has seen them?” d'Artagnan tossed in.

Athos rubbed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb, trying to get rid of the slight headache he had acquired on their ride from Arras. “I think we'll have better chances of success if we ask for them in Lille. We simply do not have enough time to ask everywhere along our way.”

“If we ride through the night we could reach Lille early in the morning. What do you think?” d'Artagnan asked.

“That's not an option, d'Artagnan. Apart from the fact that we’re leaving France and have to be cautious, we all need to sleep a couple of hours. But like I said, we can camp somewhere on the road to Lille and make an early start then. That would earn us some extra time.” He was as eager as the young man to reach Lille but wouldn't risk riding through the night.

“I guess we'll have another two or three hours of daylight, so let's eat something and head on.” Porthos scanned the houses they passed in search of a tavern. When he spotted a tavern sign he pointed it out to his two companions. “That looks good!” Without waiting for a reaction he urged his horse over to the inn and dismounted. Porthos' yardstick in regard to proper taverns was set rather low. As long as food was served and there was a chance for a card game, it was good enough for him, though tonight he wasted no thoughts on card games, and only a little on getting something into his stomach.

Athos eyed the exterior of the tavern with some suspicion, but followed Porthos and d'Artagnan into the taproom nonetheless.

They ordered stew and wine and while they waited for their food to arrive they listened to the flow of conversations around them. More than once the topic of those conversations was about the rumors that France was going to war and Louis had demanded Flanders back from Spain. However, there were also opinions that Flanders would rather stab France in the back than bow again to any foreign monarch. Some even claimed to have heard plans of a revolt with Flanders against both Spain _and_ France, supported by the Duchy of Brabant and the _Prins van Oranje_ , fighting for independence along with the Dutch Federation. Flanders, after all, was rich and Louis was greedy, a monarch who wouldn't hesitate to bleed that province white.

“I don't like this,” Porthos growled. “I don't think we'll get a warm welcome once we've entered Flanders.”

“Do you think it's wise for us to enter Flanders in uniform? Maybe we should hide the fact that we are King's Musketeers and remove the pauldrons?” d'Artagnan suggested.

“Yet there is no war and they have only heard rumors. We have nothing to hide.” Athos swallowed the rest of his wine. “I'm a King's Musketeer, I submit to neither Spain nor Flanders.” He stressed his words by slamming his tankard on the table, a scowl on his face.

“Aye, you're right,” Porthos agreed, grumbling to himself, “Doesn't mean I have to like it, though.”

A fight started a couple of feet away from their table and Porthos took the chance to work off his feeling of inaction. He entered the fray, dealing some blows while D'Artagnan watched amusedly from his place at the table until one of the fighters crashed into said table and lay in a heap of wood and limbs at his feet. Athos had paid the innkeeper and now signaled to the Gascon to come over. 

“Porthos, come,” d'Artagnan yelled over the noise in the room and followed Athos outside. Both were already mounted when Porthos strode through the door, grinning contentedly. 

Leaving Lens northbound they rode for another two hours before setting up camp in the woods. It was a wakeful night for all of them. The two not on night watch tossed and turned and got no more than an hour or two of fitful sleep, until it was another’s turn to keep watch while whoever had just been relieved lay awake, unable to find sleep despite being dead tired. Whether it was the awareness of being on enemy turf or their concern for their missing one, they neither knew nor cared, but all were glad when morning dawned and they could saddle the horses and head on to Lille. When they reached the city around noon they became aware of the unfriendly glances darted towards them as soon as they had entered through the city gate. 

“It’s not going to be easy to retrieve information,” Porthos growled. “Add the fact that none of us speak Flemish isn’t going to help much.” He looked around grimly, countering unfriendly glances with his own threatening stares. 

“We'll see, I'm sure we'll find some who speak French. After all, this was French territory for centuries.” Athos tried to sound confident, though he was fully aware of the attention they aroused.

D'Artagnan tilted his head consideringly. "I don't know. Flanders hasn't belonged to France since, ummh, a very long time. Some hundreds of years? And from what we've heard here, no one seems to eager to return to French rule." The Gascon fell silent, thinking of his countrymen in Gascony, many of whom did not speak kindly of King Louis. Given the opportunity, they would secede from French rule sooner rather than later, and Gascony was not the only province who thought that way. If Flanders was fomenting revolt against Spain and France, French Musketeers would hardly be welcome in their territory. D'Artagnan still had reservations about choosing to ride into Flanders with their pauldrons announcing their allegiance so obviously on display. But he also had to admit Athos was right; they were King's Musketeers. In d'Artagnan's eyes, he served in the finest regiment one could wish for and there was no reason to hide that fact. 

As they had done so often before, they asked around in inns, taverns and stables, but unlike before, the people were hostile and most, if at all, answered in Flemish, aware of the fact that these Frenchmen didn't understand one word of what was spoken. Nevertheless, the three didn't give up and from time to time they met a fellow Frenchman who answered their questions. Though none of them with success.

After spending all day asking around and searching for signs of Aramis, or the man with the bald head, they looked for an inn where they could stay the night, for evening was already closing in. During their search they had come across two inns whose innkeepers had been friendly towards them, both of them speaking French, and one even a Frenchman who hailed from Picardy and had married into Flanders. That was where they bent their steps to now and asked for a room. 

Entering the taproom, they were greeted by the mutter of voices in the room, realizing after a moment that a lot of the conversations going on were in French. Obviously this inn was popular with French merchants who traveled the route between Paris and Ghent, Bruges or Antwerp. This, they hoped, would leave them unmolested during their meal and not earn them dark looks for being here, as it had in many places before in this town.

“Bonsoir messieurs,” the innkeeper greeted them once they were seated at a table, “what can I bring you?”

“We need a room for the night, and a warm meal and a bottle of wine,” Athos ordered, pushing back his hat just far enough for his eyes to meet the innkeeper's, giving himself the chance to assure his orders were noted. 

The innkeeper, who recognized the Musketeers from earlier in the day, nodded confirmingly. “I'll bring you stew and bread and show you to your room later. Get off that table at once, crétin!” he yelled, eyes fixed over the heads of the Musketeers now towards the other end of the room. “Pardon,” he mumbled, hurrying away.

D'Artagnan, startled by the yelling, watched the innkeeper cross the room with forceful strides and pull a rather drunken patron from one of the tables; the latter obviously just in the process of doffing his breeches. When the affair between the innkeeper and the drunkard was settled, d'Artagnan raised the question of how they should proceed. The disappointment that they had not made any progress was written all over the young man's face. “We have found nothing so far. No one has seen them, no sign of Aramis. We cannot search all of Flanders, they could be anywhere!” D'Artagnan's voice had grown louder with each word.

“I know.” Athos pulled off his hat and swiped a hand over his face, looking unaccustomedly tired.

“We should speak to that duke.”

“And do you have an idea how we might get anywhere near him?” Athos asked, looking enquiringly at the Gascon, eyebrow arched.

“Oh, come on Athos, you're a comte, after all. Surely he'll receive you when one of his menials announces the Comte de la Fère,” Porthos declared. “Even a _Flamand_ would have enough sense of decency not to turn down a man of nobility, French or not.”

Athos, ruffling his already unkempt hair absent-mindedly, squinted at Porthos: “I hardly look like a comte, do I? So much for decency.”

“But Porthos is right. That would be our best chance to meet the duke and ask him.”

“And what exactly do you intend to ask him? If he has taken a Frenchman hostage, a former King's Musketeer? If he is plotting against the French sovereign?” Athos' voice was dangerously low. “Or if maybe he was in such dire need of a cleric that he abducted a monk-to-be? Men of nobility don't take kindly to being accused of crimes without any proof to verify such allegations. And from foreign soldiers at that.”

“So what, we don't ask him at all? Best leave the duke alone so he isn't offended? Best we do nothing because we all know that Athos would rather sacrifice one of his brothers than be reminded that he was born a _comte_.” D'Artagnan jumped up, staring hostilely at Athos, words dripping with venom. “Wouldn't be the first time, would it?” 

“Whoa, boys, calm down.” Porthos stretched out his arms towards both Athos and d'Artagnan, signing the latter to sit down again.

“Sit down, d'Artagnan, ”Athos said softly, calmly.

“Or what?” D'Artagnan, heatedly looking down at Athos, pushed at the chair he had just vacated so it clunked against the table. “I _care_ for my friends.” Other than you. Though this had not been spoken aloud, everyone heard it as clearly as every other word that had been voiced so far. “I won't sit idle while one of my brothers suffers.”

D'Artagnan's raised voice garnered attention from other tables, some of the patrons already turning to stare, probably wondering why the Musketeers were shouting at each other, but d'Artagnan paid no attention to them. He glared a last time at Athos and then rushed off, pushing some people to the side who had the misfortune to be standing in the young man's path on his way to the door. With a bang the door closed behind the Gascon. 

Athos' gaze followed the retreating Gascon and Porthos shook his head. “I'll go after him,” the big man announced, rising from his seat. 

“Leave him. He has to cool down. I'm sure he will come back once his anger has abated,” Athos remarked, his eyes still on the door d'Artagnan had vanished through.

Porthos sat down again, looking over at his new captain. “He didn't mean that.”

“I know. He's just so worried.” Athos swiped a hand over his face again. “Besides, you know there is some truth behind his words. You, of all people, know this.” Athos' expression grew distant. Thinking back, he could still hear Aramis' accusations ringing in his ears, could even feel the marksman's anger hurled at him that day. _What's the matter with you?! Don't you care about Porthos?_ It wasn't true, he cared about them, all of them. He just couldn't let it show the same way the others did and he knew he was his own worst enemy in this regard.

The silence grew between them until Porthos shook his head. “That's not true and you know it. You would never let any of us down.” He took a gulp from his cup. “Not ever. And d'Artagnan knows this, too, believe me.”

Athos stared at the cup in his hands. He didn't know what made his brothers so sure, or why he deserved their blind faith and loyalty, when often he met them with gruff rejection. Undoubtedly and without hesitation he would die for any of them at any given time, even more so if it would save their lives. Lives he deemed so much more worthy to be lived than his own. But he also knew that when it came to his cursed ancestry he tended to make irrational decisions. Lifting his head he saw Porthos studying him, a slight smile playing on the other man's knowing face.

Luckily just then the stew arrived and saved Athos from any further conversation regarding his noble ancestry, or his consequent misdeterminations. They both dug in, only now realizing how hungry they were. Athos was already regretting the dissension he had had with d'Artagnan, particularly because his young companion was equally in need of sustenance after yet another exhausting day. 

When they had finished with their stew they conversed in hushed voices about their next steps. D'Artagnan had been right after all. They could not search all of Flanders, and the Duke of Ryselle, or at least one of his men, was the best lead they had. D'Artagnan's bowl stood undisturbed, and now and then one of the Musketeers darted a quick glance at it, wondering where their absent third was.

About an hour had passed, filled with discussions, scheming plans and some silent brooding, when the vacant chair at their table was dragged away forcefully and d'Artagnan slumped into it. He didn't utter a word but grabbed for his still half-filled goblet, emptying it with a gulp. Then he looked at the other men.

The Gascon sported a bleeding cut underneath his left eye and bruises on his brow and chin, and Athos observed grazed knuckles and an overall disheveled appearance when looking him up and down.

“We have put aside the stew for you,” Athos declared dryly and shoved the bowl towards the young man. “You need to eat.”

D'Artagnan stared at Athos, anger, uncertainty and something else flickering in his eyes, a frown forming on his brow.

Athos stared back for a moment before a growing smile ghosted around his mouth, his eyes loosing the hardness.

D'Artagnan grinned back, starting to dig into his stew, but was halted by Porthos. “Warm it wasn't a pleasure, but eating it cold is pure self-mortification. I'll order you a fresh one.” A second later Porthos' loud voice boomed through the taproom ordering a bowl of stew, bread and a bottle of wine. With a wink he grinned mischievously at the Gascon.

“Aramis would scold you for this, you know that,” Athos pointed at the bleeding cut in d'Artagnan's face, “blemishes your pretty face.”

Porthos slapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder, announcing, “'s time that the puppy earns himself some visible scars, don't you think? His face is much too smooth for a Musketeer. Having no beard 'n' all.” Chuckling, he tousled d'Artagnan's hair.

“Why did I have to end up with these morons,” d'Artagnan muttered under his breath, but loud enough for the others to hear. Then he wolfed down the stew the maidservant just had brought.

A short time later they finished the last bottle of wine and headed up the stairs to the room the innkeeper had allotted them earlier between serving another bottle of wine and yelling at the maidservants.

Athos held d'Artagnan back once they had reached the landing and put his hand lightly on the back of the young man's neck, pulling up the head closer to his own. “D'Artagnan, we will find him. At any cost, however long it takes. Never doubt this,” Athos stated low-voiced, uttering the words as he squeezed d'Artagnan's neck lightly.

D'Artagnan looked up, his hair falling forward and covering his eyes, making him appear young and vulnerable. In his mentor's face he could read what was unvoiced. _Do not doubt me._ D'Artagnan nodded and briefly hugged the older man, whispering in his ear, “I'm sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry for,” Athos replied once d'Artagnan had stepped back, looking the young man straight in the eye to make sure his words were understood the way he meant them.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While the Spaniard explained the details of the method of torture that involved fire, hot iron and burned flesh, Aramis’ heart cramped with pure fear and he struggled to breathe, his lips moving in silent prayer. 'Anything, merciful God, I will suffer, but please, _please_ , take this cup away from me! _Santa Madre de Dios!_ '

_“..... no tenemos tiempo! Entiendes?”_

Aramis heard them conversing in hushed tones, but it took him a moment to push aside the haze in his head and comprehend what was spoken. Another day of torture lay behind him and he had sensed that they were growing angrier, more brutal, more restless, had felt it with every hit, with every cut, with the sheer force they tormented his body with. They were running out of time and it was he who took the brunt of the pressure they were under.

“I know, you don't have to remind me!” the leader of the men hissed to his Spanish companion. “What do you suggest?”

Aramis’ mind drifted when instead he should be focusing on what they were talking about, and he knew it, but couldn’t bring himself to listen carefully. Once more it had been a hard day and embarrassingly he had not stayed as silent as the days before, he had cried out in agony when his broken bones grated on each other again and again, when cold metal caused searing pain. They had laughed while inflicting more and more pain on him, had twisted his limbs, poked at his raw flesh, reopened barely healed wounds and at one point put a pistol barrel between his eyes. It would have been a relief and he hadn't flinched, simply stared at them with unblinking eyes, almost begged them to pull the trigger, but they soon realized that threatening him with a quick death would gain them nothing. Eventually he hadn't had any strength left to curse at them and when he couldn't keep himself from squirming and groaning in pain, he had concentrated on holding back the tears that threatened to escape. How close he had been to begging, how close to telling them what they wanted to hear. But he had borne up, somehow, once again.

“I know something we could try, I've heard agents talk about it,” the Spaniard said.

Aramis' attention drifted back to the conversation in time to hear the man suggest trying something Spanish torturers claimed to have good success with. While the Spaniard explained the details of the method of torture that involved fire, hot iron and burned flesh, Aramis’ heart cramped with pure fear and he struggled to breathe, his lips moving in silent prayer. 'Anything, merciful God, I will suffer, but please, _please_ , take this cup away from me! _Santa Madre de Dios!_ ' He had seen the scarred flesh on Rochefort's body, the snakes of cicatrized skin that crawled over his skin and had claimed the man’s torso, had rooted deep inside Rochefort's mind. Aramis knew that he would never be able to withstand fire, had known it then as he did now. Fire he dreaded more than anything else in his life.

Once, in his early soldier's life and before he had joined the Musketeer Regiment, he had been on a mission to Lombardy at a time when the inquisition raged through the land and hundreds of Vaudois burned at the stake, the smell of scorched flesh wafting over the province, settling in every fiber of every being and everything. He had been sick for the whole time they had had to stay in that land, and months after the mission he had still smelt the horrible stench, couldn't get rid of it, couldn't get it out of his nose, out of his mind, no matter how often he scrubbed his skin until it was raw, red and lacerated. He had scraped up the money and exchanged every single piece of his uniform, of his clothing down to his braies and still everything had reeked. Ever since that time he had feared the day he would have to smell the stench of his own flesh burning.

Just now, he realized, his time was up and he would have to face his deepest fear, the invincible foe. And he would have to face it alone...

*******

Athos decided it would be sufficient to haul over the heavy trunk and place it in front of the door. That would hopefully stop anyone trying to enter the room, at least long enough for the Musketeers to wake up and arm themselves. They were all dead tired, in dire need of sleep and the trunk would have to do as night guard. For once, all of them fell asleep within a short time after climbing into the beds, though it was fitful sleep again.

D'Artagnan woke in the middle of the night, jolting up from a bad dream. A dream that had been so vivid that the pale face of his dead friend still lingered visibly in his mind's eye, a dreadful sight he tried rubbing away with his hands. He swiped at his sweat soaked face and tried to calm his breath, counting to three with each inhale, four when he let the air leave his lungs again, all the while trying to force the horrible vision to fade away. It was only a dream! He looked over to where the others lay, hoping he had not woken one of them. 

“You should go back to sleep, it'll be another long day tomorrow.”

D'Artagnan almost jumped, his heart rate increasing again. “So why are you awake then,” he hissed, squinting his eyes and trying to make out the figure of the other man in the dark room.

“Most certainly for the same reasons you woke ,” Athos replied. “Besides, I don't need much sleep. You do, _frérot_.”

D'Artagnan felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he fell back on the pillow. He thought back to the time he had first met Athos, blinded by grief over the death of his father and driven by revenge. And how in the end he had helped to save the man he had thought had killed his father, from certain death. When he had stormed into the garrison that day, ready to die, he had never thought that one day he would befriend these men. Moreover, that they would become his family. His brothers.

D'Artagnan drifted back to sleep and slept through until Porthos splashed cold water in the young man's face, grinning devilishly.

“We'll ask the innkeeper where we can find the duke and then confront him.” Athos threw d'Artagnan's waistbelt and weapons over to him, the Gascon catching them expertly.

“We'll pay him a visit?” d'Artagnan asked, surprised, buckling on this belt.

“Of course we will, or do you have a better suggestion?” Porthos grinned and guffawed when he saw the venomous look d'Artagnan graced his companions with.

“Let's go,” Athos tossed in, making his way to the door.

The taproom was sparsely occupied, most merchants already on their way, others probably still asleep due to the amount of wine they had had the night before.

Athos stepped up to the innkeeper and paid for their stay. “Monsieur du Thiel, can you give us directions to the estate of the Duke of Ryselle? We have business to discuss with him.” 

“Sure, he resides on the road to Ghent. You can't miss it, his residence is about as big as the _Château de Fontainebleau_.” The innkeeper rolled his eyes, showing what he thought about that. “But if you want to speak to the duke I fear you have come in vain. As far as I know he is at the court in Paris and hasn't been here for over half a year. My wife's cousin works at the chateau, and only the day before yesterday she told us how pleasant it is to be in the pay of the duke while he is away. For sure there's still a lot of work, but since he and his family are away in Paris it's more..., well, you know. He is not a kind man, from what she tells us.” The innkeeper gave them a meaningful look and they knew what he tried to convey. Especially the young maids surely were glad that their master was not here. 

“Your wife's cousin, is she there now? Would she be willing to answer some questions?” Athos had not yet given up hope that they could find out something, even when the duke was not at home.

“I'm sure she will; tell her I sent you. Her name is Céliny Gachet and she speaks passable French. She works in the kitchens.”

“Thank you, Monsieur. Au revoir.” Athos put on his hat and walked to the door, Porthos and d’Artagnan already waiting there.

“That's rather bad news, I'd say,” Porthos grumbled on their way out. “Can't imagine talkin' to the maid will get us any information.”

“The smith already said it might not mean anything that the man wore the duke's coat of arms. Maybe he isn't even in the pay of the duke anymore,” Athos replied while they walked to the stable to retrieve their horses.

“It's worth a try, I'd say,” d'Artagnan voiced, heaving the saddle onto his mount. “It's the only trace we have anyway.”

They saddled their horses in silence, brooding about the early failure of their plan and left Lille through the gate at rue des Batelieres, immediately turning northwards onto the road to Ghent.

“Do either of you know of the _duc_? I mean if he is at court, we should have seen him there. I can't remember ever having heard his name before,” Porthos stated.

“I wasn't even aware there was Flemish nobility at Louis' court,” Athos replied, shaking his head negatively. “Never heard that name before.”

“Is it good or bad that he is not here? I mean, if he has not been in Lille for such a long time, how could he have anything to do with Aramis' disappearance?” D'Artagnan paused for a moment, then added, “On the other hand, if he was here, he could at least give us an answer as to who this man is the blacksmith described.”

“Let's see what the mademoiselle tells us. Often the servants know more of what's going on in the household than the masters themselves.”

Porthos and d'Artagnan both eyed Athos, wondering if he was speaking from experience. They shared a meaningful look behind their captain's back. 

“I really hope she can tell us something,” d'Artagnan said, spurring his horse into gallop, eager to reach the estate and see if they could get some answers there. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed his companions' consent with the faster pace he struck up, both men urging their horses to follow suit. 

Upon reaching the palace, they understood what the innkeeper had meant when he had referred to the duke's residence. From over a mile before they arrived at the access course, they had been able to see the vast expanses of the beautifully arranged gardens, the grand palace with towers and turrets and countless ivy-covered windows, its grandeur implying that a large number of attendants were needed to maintain the whole complex. Athos, who had once, together with Aramis and a couple more Musketeers, accompanied Louis to Fontainebleau, admitted that in fact it looked even bigger than Louis' birthplace.

At the gate they were halted by guards with raised lances, the men eyeing the foreign soldiers suspiciously. “State your business!”

Naturally, this was spoken in Flemish and the Musketeers could only guess what had been shouted at them, but understood what the guards wanted even without a translation. The barking of the order and the demeanor was the same as was in every other land where a soldier stood guard and found himself confronted with unknown visitors.

“Bonjour,” Athos greeted in French, doffing his hat in just such an elegant way it would have pleased Aramis to see, “we would like to speak to one of the kitchen maids about a private matter; her cousin's husband sends us.” It was not a downright lie, so Athos didn't even have to exert himself to come up with something. “Her name is Céliny Gachet.”

The guards quickly exchanged some words in Flemish and the Musketeers were not sure if the men had understood Athos' reply at all, but then the guards' attention turned back to the men in front of them.

“Dismount. Come,” one ordered in the same harsh tone as before, but this time in rough French.

The Musketeers followed the order, dismounting and trailing behind the guard who had addressed them and now made his way towards the courtyard. More soldiers stood on guard before the great entrance portal, ogling the new arrivals with sullen looks, and the Musketeers were gesticulated to wait while a servant went to fetch Mademoiselle Gachet. At least that was what the Musketeers thought had been asked of the young page who had been shouted at as soon as he had stuck his head out of the side door. 

A short while later the Musketeers were invited to follow the majordomo who had finally graced them with his presence, most likely after one of the guards had announced the foreign soldiers to the keeper of the house. The majordomo led them to the reception hall and made some sparse, patronizing gestures with his hands, indicating the Frenchmen were to wait, which they did for a long time until finally the great door opened again and a young maid was ushered in. Upon seeing the Musketeers she probably looked even more frightened than before, but nevertheless made her way over and curtseyed in front of the Musketeers. 

“You sent for me, Messieurs?” she addressed them in French.

“Please, you don't have to be afraid. Your cousin's husband, Monsieur du Thiel, sent us,” d'Artagnan replied.

The young maid looked even more confused now. “Émile sends you? Has something happened?”

“No, Mademoiselle, we only have a couple of questions and Monsieur du Thiel was sure you would be willing to help. He told us that the duke is not here, but maybe you could answer a few questions in his stead. We are in search of one of his men.” While speaking, Athos had led the maid a few feet away from the center of the room towards the windows. Over there it was unlikely that the guards on watch at the door would hear what was spoken.

She looked expectantly up to Athos.

“Do you know of a man who is in the pay of the duke, about the height of my companion here,” Athos pointed to Porthos, “bald head, beard stubble and a scar under his eye. He was reportedly seen in Arras about twelve days ago.”

“You speak of Gaston,” the young woman replied immediately, her face showing disgust, “he is the duke's henchman for all things no one else wants to do. What do you want from him?”

Athos heard Porthos and d'Artagnan shift behind him. He wasn't sure how much they could reveal, how far they could trust this maidservant. But he knew they had precious little choice.

“One of our friends is missing and was last seen in the company of four men, one of them this Gaston. Do you know where he is now?”

“He left with his highness for Paris, but I know he was here once some weeks ago, four, maybe five. Since then I have not seen him here again.”

This answer was disappointing and brought them no closer to the mystery of where Aramis was and why he had been captured.

“Do you know of a Frenchman who might have arrived here about ten days ago, either in the company of two or more men, or on his own?” Athos adopted another course, not yet willing to give up hope of receiving useful information. “Are there any visitors here right now or other people you have not seen here before?” Athos sensed his companions holding their breath, he himself doing the same in expectation of her answer.

“No, monsieur, there are no visitors here. The master wouldn't allow it and there would be no reason anyway with him and his family not here. I haven't heard of any new hirings nor have I seen unfamiliar faces here over the course of the last few weeks.” She looked away for a moment, obviously hunting her memory for any such occurrences. “No, not that I can think of any. But please mind, monsieur, I work in the kitchens and don't get around a lot on the property here.”

Athos didn't let his disappointment show, but bowed his head slightly. “Thank you for your help, mademoiselle. We have no more questions.”

They bid adieu to mademoiselle Gachet and were escorted back to the entry gate, leaving the palace disappointed and clueless about what they should do now.

“I wish we were able to search the grounds of the estate,” Porthos grunted once they were through the main gate, throwing a longing look over his shoulder. “I don't like having to rely on the statement of an ordinary kitchen maid.”

Athos viewed the other man, attaching little importance to the slightly disdainful intonation of Porthos' words. The captain knew the words bore the frustration of the outcome of their visit. “Yet I have the feeling that even if we searched in every nook and cranny we would not find Aramis. I don’t believe he is here.” Athos shrugged his shoulders, he couldn't put a finger on this feeling but somehow sensed that they were searching in the wrong direction.

“Yeah, I believe she told the truth, she would have told us if she knew something. And that man, Gaston, has obviously not been here for quite a while. At least she confirmed that he is still in the pay of the duke.” D'Artagnan looked to Athos, then over to Porthos. “Should we head back to Paris? After all, he might be there with his master.”

On their way back to Lille they discussed further steps, finally deciding to ride to Arras and speak once more with the smith. The feeling kept growing that it had been a fruitless effort to search for Aramis in Flanders altogether. If the duke really had anything to do with Aramis' disappearance, the marksman might already be back in Paris, locked away somewhere at the mercy of the duke and his men. Though none of them could think of any reason at all why the _Duc de Ryselle_ would capture a former Musketeer. 

In Lille they stocked up on provisions and were soon on their way back to Lens and then on to Arras. As they rode west out of Lens through the great city gate, d'Artagnan voiced a thought that had occurred awhile ago. 

“I wonder why they rode back to Arras if their aim really was Lille. It doesn't make sense.” He looked over at his companions. “Jacques told us that Aramis left for Douai and later came back in the company of those men, riding on the road to Arras. We know they reached Arras because that was where they changed Aramis' horse. Given what the blacksmith told us, they headed then to Lens and probably on to Lille. Why should they have turned around when Aramis was already on his way to Douai? Wouldn't it have been quicker to ride through Douai on to Lille? Even more so because then they would already be in Flanders once they had reached Douai.”

The question hung between them, and both Athos and Porthos realized that they had not thought about this inconsistency in the route the captors had taken at all.

“What if their aim wasn't Flanders? What if they rode back to Paris, or somewhere in that direction?” Porthos remarked. “It makes no sense to turn around at Roeux and ride back to Arras and then on to Lille.”

Athos wondered if he had let himself be blinded by the blacksmith's statement, if he should have seen how unlikely it was for anyone to make such a detour if the aim was Lille. He had always been convinced he made his decisions rationally and based on fact, not on something as misguided as hope. Now he felt he could no longer trust his own judgment unswervingly, a fact that didn't bode well if one had just been appointed as captain of a regiment. “I agree. But maybe they had some business to see to in Arras,” Athos replied thoughtfully. “We will speak to the blacksmith again. If that's pointless, we head back to Paris and seek out the duke there.”

In Arras they urged their horses on the path to the smithy where Aramis' horse had been bought, but had no luck. The smith was not there. His son was running the forge while his father visited his brother who had been in need of help for some thing or other. He was expected back the next day.

Porthos walked over to the stable to see after _Bougon_. The horse was still there and greeted Porthos with a whicker.

“Good boy.” Porthos murmured, patting the horse's neck. “Where is Aramis, can you tell me that?”

The horse shook his mane as if understanding every word. _It probably does_ , Porthos thought bitterly, after all it had carried Aramis for a long time.

“Porthos!” Athos hollered, “Come!”

“We will bring him back. Just wait and see,” Pothos whispered, stroking once more lightly over the horse's nostrils before he made his way back to the others.

“The boy says his uncle's farm is not far from here, on the road to Lillers. We'll ride there. Let's hope the smith is still with his brother.” 

They mounted and left Arras again less than an hour after they had passed the city walls.

*******

“Do you know what this is?”

“A fork maybe? Used by Flemish commoners?” Aramis knew his voice sounded rough and weak, but still. The man had heard him. The chief torturer smiled at him now, but not in a friendly way, it was rather a wicked grin he displayed, the scar under the left eye adding to the image of cruelty the man's smile bore. Of course, Aramis could have told him that this was a Spanish tickler, but then again, the man in front of him was well aware of this. 

“This, Musketeer, is called a Spanish tickler.”

Ah, and now that the man had named it, it suddenly looked much more frightening. “Spanish, eh?”

“Shall I tell you what I can do with this or should we just start and you find it out for yourself?”

Aramis gulped. No need to tell him, he knew this was used to remove skin and muscle, and in a rather long and painful way. He had never seen a victim who had been tortured with this, didn't even know if one could survive it anyway, but he could quite imagine how it must look. The pain on the other hand was something he didn't want to think about now. “Well, now that you ask. A short introduction wouldn't go amiss. I have time,” he replied, trying a smile to emphasize his answer.

“Yeah, you are really the funny kind, right?” The man shook his head. “Remarkable.” He punched Aramis in the stomach, just for the fun of it. Aramis would have doubled over and fallen to the ground if he had not been wedged between two of the helpmates who kept him upright.

“We'll try something different first, I’m still hoping you’ll come to your senses and give us what we want. Then you might still be of use to us, wouldn't do us any good if we had you stripped to pieces by then, would it? Go on!” he ordered his men, who now tied Aramis' hands, bound behind his back, to another, longer rope. When they were content with their work, they threw the long rope over a branch high over their heads and began pulling it tight.

The moment they had thrown the rope over the branch, Aramis knew what they intended to do and tried to breathe away the rising panic. _Dios te salve María llena eres de Gracia, el Señor es contigo. Bendita eres entre todas las mujeres..._ Once his feet left the ground, his own weight would mercilessly apply pressure on his arms bound behind his back, and they would be yanked in an unnatural, painful angle until his shoulders eventually dislocated. Sometimes the torturers then let their victims hang there for hours, the pressure pulling terribly at the tormented joints with unbearable pain. He ground his teeth and tried to focus on his son. He could bear it, for him. That was all that counted.

“Pull him up.”

When he was lifted up, a flash of pain ravaged through his body, and it increased with every inch he was hoisted higher. He had no influence on how long his shoulders could withstand the strain, could do nothing about it. The pain was a nameless monster eating him alive, and he screamed out curses, long and loud, hoping his captors would understand French well enough to get the meaning of his words.

“Just tell us what we want to hear, and this will be over.”

Aramis answered them with another handful of colorful curses. Once more he was glad to have served long enough in various regiments to pick up every kind of curse, including those that would turn d'Artagnan's face red as a tomato. A wave of sadness flooded through him when he thought of their youngest. He would never see him again. None of his brothers.

The men watched Aramis and one of them gave him a shove, so he started to swing slightly from side to side. Naturally, that increased the strain on his shoulders further.

“We are waiting. Do you never get enough of this?”

 _No_ , Aramis wanted to say, but he felt bile rise up his throat and was sure he would lose consciousness every moment, for the pain was a living thing, gnawing with fiery teeth at his flesh, yanking it from his bones, hitting his head continuously with a sledgehammer, driving fragments of bones deep into his brain. He felt his left shoulder dislocate, accompanied by a sickening sound, and cried out in pure agony. Yet, his mind still clung to consciousness. He prayed under his breath, clipped and breathless. _Dominus pascit me ... nihil mihi deerit ... in pascuis herbarum adclinavit me ... super aquas refectionis enutrivit me...._

“Praying will gain you nothing. A few answers and this can be over.” The leader paused to see whether he would get a response to what he had said, absent-mindedly stroking his sweaty, bald head with a dirty hand, as if a little clueless about how to handle this stubborn soldier. When nothing came, he added, “You know that we will repeat this. Again and again. The pain will only increase each time.”

Aramis stayed silent, panting heavily, sweat running down his body and mingling with the blood from fresh wounds. Finally, when his right shoulder blade snapped out of its socket, God had mercy on Aramis and wrapped His suffering child in darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment d'Artagnan held, watching Athos ride away and then urged his horse on. Riding without his friends at his side always left the Gascon feeling uneasy. It had been hard to let Aramis go; even when the remaining three were together the feeling that something was missing was always present. Splitting up now with Porthos and Athos was even harder, strengthening the feeling that they were falling apart.

With the fading daylight, the three Inseparables reached the farm the boy had described. When they rode into the yard, a mountain of a man came through the stable doors, followed by another one, as big and hulky as the first. In the latter Athos recognized the smith from Arras, the other one certainly his brother, given the resemblance of both. The smith seemed to know who they were as well, already speaking before he and his brother had reached the soldiers.

“Are you not the Musketeers searching for their friend? What brings you here?”

“Your son told us that we would find you here. We have a few more questions,” Athos replied while dismounting.

The bulky brothers reached the group, looking expectantly to the new arrivals.

“We have been to Lille, but it seems the duke and his men are in Paris. What made you think the one who brought our friend's horse was on his way to Lille? Did he mention anything?”

The smith scratched his beard, probably a habit he had acquired when thinking hard. “I can't remember that he mentioned Lille, but somehow I must've guessed he would head this way.” His gaze searched something in the distance, something only he could see, while the beard-scratching continued. “Wonder what made me think so,” the blacksmith muttered absentmindedly.

Silence reigned in the small courtyard again while everyone waited for an utterance from the hard-thinking man. Porthos' horse sidled about nervously and the big man, still mounted, rubbed its neck in a soothing way, all the while watching the smith closely for a visual reaction, any kind of cognition. When it finally came, both d'Artagnan and Porthos almost startled.

“Oi! I know why I thought he must be headed to Lille!” the blacksmith burst out suddenly, relief suffusing his whole face when his mind was finally able to dig out some long-lost memory.

Athos waited patiently for the man to continue, the comte's eyes, bare of any emotion, fixed to the farrier.

The smith looked from Athos to Porthos to d'Artagnan, his gaze returning finally to Athos again. “I showed him the horses and he randomly picked one, without even looking at them properly. I told him that the one he had chosen was a good horse but not one for great distances or high pace. He muttered something like 'as long as it takes us into Flanders'. Or some such.” He looked up to the Musketeers again to assess their reaction. “I only presumed he was headed for Lille after this reference to Flanders. Because of the coat of arms, you know?”

Porthos turned to d'Artagnan with a slight smile around his lips. “That's something then, even if not much.”

D'Artagnan simply nodded and wondered if he was the only one who realized they were running out of time. It seemed they were back to where they had started, the first week of leave Tréville had granted them was over and they had discovered nothing. Moreover, it had already been two weeks since Aramis had disappeared and probably was in the hands of some kind of captors. He couldn't see how this helped them any further, couldn't see the optimism the older man displayed.

“Did he say anything else? Did he mention any company he was with, let slip a name? Anything?” If the man had remembered this, he might recall other things as well, now that his mind had gotten started. At least that was Athos' hope.

A hope that was crushed mere moments later. Shaking his head, the smith replied. “No, monsieur, I really can't recall anything else, been a while and all. But I don't think he said anything more, was rather a kind of clam, that one. Didn't speak much, rather a bit grumpy and all.” The blacksmith picked up scratching his beard again. “Paid me my money and was gone. That's all. _Je suis désolé_ ,” he added, when he saw the crestfallen mien of the youngest soldier.

“Thank you, monsieur. If you can't remember anything else that would help us, we will be on our way again.” Athos nodded towards both men by way of farewell and mounted his horse, signing with a minute motion of his head to Porthos and d'Artagnan that they would leave.

“Good luck!” the smith called, looking after the retreating men.

“What was that all 'bout?” the farmer asked.

“Came to me two days ago, searching for one of their own and found his horse in my stables.” He glanced sideways to his brother. “Had obtained it from a Flemish, one in the pay of Arnaud van Oudenaarde.” The blacksmith spat out the name as if it was a disgusting bug. “Hope they find the man and whop him soundly. They say Musketeers are the toughest and finest soldiers in the service of our king.”

His brother gave an approving nod, spat out the tobacco he had been chewing all the time and together they returned to the stable to finish their day's work.

*******

“What do we do now?” d'Artagnan asked once they were back on the road.

“I've no idea,” Porthos stated, shrugging his shoulders.

“Let's look at what we have,” Athos said. “The assumed captor or captors of Aramis are not in Lille, if what Mademoiselle Gachet told us is true. The smith however is sure they headed for Flanders, at least the man called Gaston. They rode westwards from Roeux to Arras, and then where to? Further west?” Athos eyed his companions enquiringly.

“Honestly? I've no idea,” Porthos said again, shaking his head.

D'Artagnan's dispirited look, accompanied by a twitch of his shoulder and eyes shining with despair, was enough answer for Athos.

Porthos reigned in his horse and looked to their leader, waiting for a decision. “What now?”

Athos halted his horse, too, his eyes following d'Artagnan who let his mount trot on for a couple more yards before stopping. “Let's find an inn where we can stay the night. We'll discuss our further plans.” Athos had no idea what they should do now, where to turn their search to, but he was sure with a bottle or two of wine, making decisions would come more naturally to him. He spurred his horse, relying on the other two to follow suit.

Before long they found an inn where they asked for a room for the night and a warm meal. While gauging their situation over dinner they decided to split up and search west bound along the border to Flanders.

“We will ask at every inn, tavern, forge and farm on our way. Anywhere that group of men with Aramis could possibly have stopped for a short break, stocked up provisions, whatever. If the smith is right and their destination really was Flanders, and it was not Lille they headed to, then they must have crossed the border somewhere more westwards.” Athos emptied his goblet in one gulp, waving at the innkeeper to bring another bottle even before he had put down the cup.

Both Porthos and d'Artagnan could see the truth behind their captain's words, but that didn't mean they had to like it. Splitting up would give them more time to stop wherever they thought it would be suitable to get information, but it would also be more dangerous.

They agreed to never ride into Flanders more than one or two miles, always staying on the border or within France, and not risk anything unless absolutely necessary. Porthos would ride back to Lens and start from there to take over the first part of the route. Athos and d'Artagnan would immediately head west and split up at Aix-Noulette, d'Artagnan heading further west on direct route until he reached the border to Flanders to start with his inquiries, and Athos would begin his search where Porthos would likely end the following day.

“In two days time we'll meet outside of Lillers in the evening, on the road from Béthune.” Athos decided. This would give everyone plenty of time for the ride and inquiry.

“Let's hope for some luck; maybe they stopped once more on their way and someone remembers Aramis or the duke's man,” Porthos said, clutching d'Artagnan's lower arm and squeezing it slightly.

Athos watched the young Gascon nodding to the bigger man thankfully for the attempt of raising hope. The comte hoped the decision was right. He worried a little about his young protégé. Though d'Artagnan had proven to be a fine soldier and skilled warrior, he still tended to be rash and impetuous and it was useful to have one's eye on him in delicate assignments. This mission was definitely wearing d'Artagnan out, as it was doing with both older Musketeers, though they were more adept at not letting it show.

*******

After a short night they parted early the next morning, none of them happy about it.

“I know it's more dangerous if we ride alone, so be extra cautious,” Athos reminded his companions again superfluously. “I'm also not happy with it,” he added when he saw the others' faces, “but we simply are running out of time. This triples our efforts and is probably our only chance to get useful information again.”

“Be safe!” they voiced almost simultaneously and parted, heading in their respective directions. One hour of full gallop later Athos bid d'Artagnan farewell and made his way to the Flemish border. For a moment d'Artagnan held, watching Athos ride away and then urged his horse on. Riding without his friends at his side always left the Gascon feeling uneasy. It had been hard to let Aramis go; even when the remaining three were together the feeling that something was missing was always present. Splitting up now with Porthos and Athos was even harder, strengthening the feeling that they were falling apart.

********

Athos was the first to arrive just short of the city gate at Lillers. Detecting none of his fellows, he allowed his horse to graze in a small meadow beside the road and looked for a shady place to sit down and wait for the other men's arrival. His ride had been in vain, a dead loss. Wherever he had halted and inquired about the men they were searching for, he had been answered with a negating shake of the head. He felt the frustration in every fibre of his body and was in dire need of either a bottle of wine or someone he could punch. Both were, alas, not at hand. He was wondering whether he still had time to ride into Lillers, get himself a bottle of wine, and be back in time to meet the others, when he saw dust swirling up the road. It was a lone rider making his way down the road, and very soon he recognized the huge stature of Porthos.

When Porthos came to a standstill at the side of the road where Athos had just risen from his place in the shade, the big man shook his head. “Nothing. You? Any information?” Porthos dismounted while speaking and walked over to the captain.

“No.” Athos shook his head. “Not the slightest hint.”

“ _Bon Dieu de merde_!” Porthos yelled, kicking at the tree's trunk and throwing his hat into the dust in one motion.

Athos put a calming hand on his friends shoulder but agreed with Porthos' words from the bottom of his heart. “Let's wait and see if d'Artagnan had more success. I wouldn't put it past him.”

Athos sat down again and leaned his back against the tree's trunk, pulling his hat over his eyes in a show of false calmness, and Porthos took up pacing, every now and then checking the road for any new arrivals.

The setting sun bathed the landscape around them in a soft, warm light. Another quarter hour or so and it would be dark, and yet there was no sign of d'Artagnan. After a while, Athos rose and stepped up to Porthos who was still watching the road.

“He should already be here, shouldn't he?” Porthos asked without looking away from the road.

“He will come.”

“Well, if you say so,” Porthos replied, his voice scratching on the verge of cutting irony.

“He always came back, didn't he? Even when the chances were slim to none.” Athos thought back to times when they had been sure they would never see the young Gascon again, had feared they'd find him lying dead, or not find him at all.

“Yeah, but back then we were four.” Porthos shot a sideways glance at his captain. Maybe they had simply run out of luck, the bond between them not strong enough anymore to hold them all together. _We should never have let him go,_ Porthos thought bitterly. Bidding Aramis farewell was probably the hardest thing he had ever been asked to do in his life. He was sure that if he had not accepted Aramis' decision and had tried to change his mind – because Porthos _needed_ Aramis at his side more than anything else in life – Aramis would have been swayed, and probably stayed. But as much as he had hated to see Aramis go, he wanted his brother to be happy, to be content, and he could understand the reasons behind Aramis' decision. If it gave him peace of mind, Porthos had been willing to accept the decision. But that didn't mean he had not been incredibly glad when Athos had suggested riding after their marksman and bringing him home. And right now he wondered why he had not just outright forbade Aramis to leave them in the first place.

“Porthos.”

The big man was jolted out of his musings when he heard Athos calling his name. Looking over to the other man Porthos saw his captain nodding eastwards down the road. A rider made his way towards them swiftly. With a wave of relief Porthos recognized their young Gascon. 

Even from a distance they noticed that d'Artagnan's dust-covered face was beaming. Their observation that this boded pleasant news was confirmed with his arrival. 

“I have news,” d'Artagnan hollered excitedly, breathing heavily while sliding from his horse. He looked at the older men. “You?”

Both shook their heads.

“I have,” d'Artagnan announced, smiling from ear to ear. “At the last inn, not far from here, I found someone who had seen them.” He took a few deep breaths to calm his breathing before continuing. “When I asked the innkeeper he couldn't remember having seen such a group, but then his daughter who attends to sojourners remembered a group of four who had a fifth man with them, allegedly a prisoner who had escaped and was being escorted back to Flanders. She said she remembered him because – and here she started blushing – he was a handsome man and didn't look like a man from Flanders. More like a Mediterranean.” D'Artagnan's smile lit up his whole face. “He would like that, wouldn't he? Anyway, when the daughter mentioned this, the innkeeper also remembered. They only stopped for a short while, demanded water for the horses and bread and meat for themselves. Only two of them had entered the tap room, the other two staying with the prisoner, and the daughter took them food and wine outside. And this was the very same day Jacques saw them and the smith got Aramis' horse!”

Porthos clapped d'Artagnan's shoulder. “That's damn good news, pup!”

“Now we have a trace again,” Athos stated and the other two could see the relief that smoothed the lines in the older man's face.

“There's more,” d'Artagnan announced.

Both Porthos and Athos looked at the younger man in surprise, they had not dared to hope for more good news. It had turned darker now, the sky had changed its color and in the west there was a small sliver of dark orange lighting the clouds. The three Musketeers were nothing more than grey shadows, and it was hard to see features. What both could see, however, was the pure joy on d'Artagnan's face about the information he had acquired.

“The innkeeper said that these men were in the service of the Duke of Ryselle. I hadn't mentioned that fact before, and asked how he knew that. He answered that all but one bore the duke's coat of arms, a sight often seen in this area. He explained to me that the forest here, “d'Artagnan waved northwards, “between Busnes, Wittes and Haverskerque is the property and game preserve of the duc de Ryselle. He is known for his cruelty towards poachers, and the constant surveillance of the woods by his men. That's why no one enters the forest unless absolutely necessary, travelers take the long way around. They say that he even punishes people who dare to collect firewood or mushrooms there. The duke is not very popular in this area.”

“So that innkeeper thinks these men were on their way to the forest?” Porthos tossed in.

“Yes. He is not sure if the duke has a hunting chateau or some such thing there, but he said it's highly likely that they headed in that direction.”

“You are amazing, d'Artagnan,” Athos said, looking fondly at his young protégé. It was dark now, so there was no chance the Gascon could see his mien, therefore he could allow himself to be a tiny bit careless with his emotions. “Let's find a tavern in Lillers, this calls for a few bottles of wine. Tomorrow we will enter Flanders.”

They mounted and made their way into Lillers where soon they found a tavern and ordered food and wine. It was not yet time to celebrate, but what d'Artagnan had unearthed had been good news and they had high hopes that soon they would be able to find Aramis.

*******

Aramis came round with a cry of pain on his lips, attempting to fight whatever was holding him down, holding him tight. Keen pain, his muddled mind registered, pushed at him again and again, with brutal force. He gasped and cursed, realizing that someone was trying to reset his swollen, dislocated joint. With another violent push his shoulder blade slid back into its socket. He screamed and cursed until his voice was raw. When a moment later he felt his other arm being grabbed with a tight grip and a foot set under his armpit, he started kicking and thrashing around, but was held down with cruel force. Fighting it made the process even more painful but he struggled against it nonetheless, though it was a weak attempt. He lost consciousness for a moment when the shoulder snapped into place, and then lay on the ground racked with pain for an indefinite time, not even able to open his eyes. It had not been an act of kindness resetting his shoulders, he knew that. Pushing his swollen joints back into its sockets caused constant pain, the process alone a kind of torture, and it meant they could repeat this method of torment, pulling him up a tree again and again, until his joints were so swollen that a relocation wasn't possible anymore for a long time, leaving him with splitting pains.

It had never occurred to him that something like this might happen. Dying on a battlefield, killed during an ambush while away on the king's business, his throat slit in a fight with the Red Guards, yes. Hanged for high treason, even this he had considered, as of late. He was a soldier, _had been_ a soldier, and had always assumed that he would very likely end one of these ways. But torture such as this had never been on his schedule.

During the affair with Rochefort he had been close, had stared into that dark void, fear in his heart, but back then he had had a goal and had been willing to endure it for the sake of the queen and his son, until the bitter end. But now? Now he could not remember _why_ he was enduring all this pain, why he was here in the first place. He had no more obligations toward his king. Or had he? It was so hard to focus on anything other than this pain. Pain that felt like a hundred thousand caddish rats, devouring every fiber of his body, only to turn into a sea of flames mere moments later, a sea that swamped his body and started leaking out through all his wounds, covering his skin until he burned brightly. His whole being felt like a big heart, pulsing pain, sending shock waves of agony through his mind with every beat, casting a damper over his will. He knew there was something he had wanted to remember, to cling to. 

He simply couldn't remember what....


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We have only four days left until we must be back in Paris,” d'Artagnan brought forth haltingly, looking at his companions. “If we don't find anything tomorrow, this lead, too, was a dead loss, searching this forest was completely in vain. There will hardly be time left to look anywhere else! We are back where we started.” The despair was audible in every word the young man spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, Aramis! Your brothers are almost there!

After dinner, savored by each of them for the first time in weeks with real hunger, and three bottles of wine, the Musketeers stumbled to their room and slept undisturbed until cockcrow. Then they rode into Flanders.

Their plan was to ride through the forest from east to west and then back again, repeating this until they had made their way from the southern border upwards north where the forest blended into farmland around Guarbecque. That way they hopefully would be able to comb the whole district for any signs of the men and Aramis.

The forest was old and untouched, and the single road that ran through it was small and overgrown. Either the duke himself seldom spent time here, the path hardly broad enough for carriages, or he and his entourage came here for hunting trips solely on horses. Another option, of course, was that the road entering from north or northeast was laid out broader, leading directly to the hunting chateau. Yet, they didn't know if there was anything like a chateau or stately home at all.

Getting through the thick undergrowth was a difficult task to undertake. Sometimes passage was not possible at all and they had to turn around and try again a couple of yards further north. Often the conifers stood together so narrowly, their branches hanging so low, that they had to dismount and lead their horses through. When the forest floor was less heavily vegetated they progressed faster, not only because it was easier to ride but they could also survey a greater area. They spent the whole day in this manner, but found neither signs of lodgings nor hints of the presence of beings, other than the wildlife that roamed the forest. Their spirits, eager and hopeful when they had entered the forest, were chastened now and an air of glum desperation hung around them like a force weighing them down, making every step an effort that had to be mustered.

“We'll have to look for a place to set up camp,” Porthos stated, “with the thick wood it'll soon be completely dark down here.”

Athos nodded. They already had problems seeing through the undergrowth, the high trees, standing close together here again, almost blocking the remaining daylight entirely.

“We have only four days left until we must be back in Paris,” d'Artagnan brought forth haltingly, looking at his companions. “If we don't find anything tomorrow, this lead, too, was a dead loss, searching this forest was completely in vain. There will hardly be time left to look anywhere else! We are back where we started.” The despair was audible in every word the young man spoke. 

No one responded to this, neither of the elder two able to find words of cheer or comfort for the younger man, there simply was nothing to say. Dwelling on their own thoughts, they just moved on.

If they didn't find Aramis within the next two days, their search had been fruitless and chances were high that they would never see their missing brother again. What they had not talked about yet was what they would do once the granted time was over. Every one of them had given Tréville his word that they would return, but Athos was not so sure anymore what his friends thought about that given word. Wasn't even sure about his own decision yet. What if there was a dissent in this matter, once the day of decision was upon them? Would they break apart over this in the end? Would it be the end of their brotherhood?

*******

Aramis tried to count how long he'd been in the hands of his captors now, but he was not sure. There was the day he had been captured and they had spent traveling. Four or five days of torture had followed and after that a pause of two days. Two of the men, including their leader, had ridden away and the remaining two had not continued with the abuse. The men had returned the next day, late in the evening and in a bad temper, but probably been tired because they'd done nothing more than insult him and kick him in the ribs a couple of times.

The next morning, the torment had started again for more days, with increased intensity. Four, five, six? He couldn't remember, days and nights drifting by in a haze, his suffering interrupted only when he fell unconscious or when nightfall brought a natural hiatus to the torture. Two of them had left again and he had been spared from torture for another two days. He didn't know if it was because the remaining men weren't capable of inflicting effective pain without the other two, or if they were afraid that he would die on them if they didn't allow him a short time of rest. He had been grateful for it, that's all he knew for certain. He was not sure if today was the third or fourth day after they had returned and resumed hurting him. Was it fifteen days now? More? Less? It was so hard to focus on anything.

By now, he had lost all feeling in his hands and arms, the rest of him was a sea of pain. He hung, his hands bound and raised high over his head, the rope wrapped around a branch above him, his feet barely touching the ground. They had stopped with the torture of dislocating his shoulders repeatedly when it had become almost impossible to relocate them. Hanging here now wasn't doing any good to his abused shoulder joints, naturally, but they had not snapped out of the sockets again. Most probably because his muscles wouldn't allow it, stone-hard as they were now.

The men had beaten him for a while, not only with their hands, but also with some kind of bludgeons, but he had remained silent. Well, not really silent, he had groaned now and then, and had insulted them occasionally through gritted teeth, but they had not heard from him what they wanted to hear. Not yet. He guessed they had stopped once he was unconscious, but wasn't sure about that point; new lesions were hard to locate when every fiber of his body screamed already with pain. They had let him hang, even after he'd come around again, and now it was evening. He'd found some kind of comfort in praying. It didn't dispel or soften the pain, but it kept his mind occupied. Maybe this was his punishment, this was what God asked of him, not a quiet life in a monastery. If so, he would suffer it as long as he could, a just penance for his sins.

One of the men must have approached him while his mind was elsewhere. He wasn't aware of it until he felt a presence beside him, and then all of a sudden his hands were free and his arms dropped down lifelessly. There was no way his legs could support his weight and he slumped to the ground like a puppet cut from its strings. There was a snap as if someone had stepped on a dry branch before his face hit the earth, hard and unchecked. For a couple of minutes he just lay there, trying to breathe, sucking in air raggedly until it became easier to fill his lungs. He heard the men laughing and someone kicked him in the side a couple of times until whoever it was walked back to the fire, leaving him alone eventually. His blood circulation returned to his hands and arms, but he felt new pain overlapping the sensation of his re-flowing blood. The snap, he remembered. In a frantic attempt to absorb his fall he had tried to bring his hands in front of him, but with no feeling in his arms or hands, obviously he hadn't been successful.

He managed to roll on his side but had to pause and wait until the pain the movement had caused, receded back to a manageable pulsation. Then he opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. There was no fresh blood nor any bones piercing the skin, but his left hand lay in an odd angle and he knew it was broken. Closing his eyes again to block out the horrible sight of his tormented body, he tried to fight the nausea and violent pain.

_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae....._

*******

When evening finally fell, the Musketeers found a suitable place to set up camp. Being on foreign soil and given what the people around here had spoken about the way the duke's men handled trespassers, they decided to take extra caution. Not daring to make a fire they only ate some bread and cheese and wrapped themselves tightly into their cloaks. Through the night two of them were on guard while one tried to get a handful of sleep in between. Naturally, none of them got much sleep at all, but since they were restless and eager to start the search again anyway, they had already packed their things and covered any signs of their presence once dawn showed its first indication of coloring the eastern sky.

Their search through the forest continued as it had done the day before. Still they found no sign of any encampment or lodgings. After midday they reached the western outskirts of the forest and trailed back to sift through the most northern part, where the forest stood thick and unapproachable again. It was there, that finally they stumbled over something.

Following the main path through the forest for awhile, Porthos suddenly halted his horse. “Look at that, doesn't this look like some kind of trail?”

His companions scrutinized the spot where Porthos had pointed to with a short nod.

“You are right, it does look like a small path,” Athos declared, signing his brothers to follow him. “It's worth a try.”

They traced the path cautiously until Porthos caught the tang of wood smoke. They dismounted and left their horses bound to a small bush, drawing their pistols before they continued walking on the small path, Athos leading the way. Everyone was on the alert and scanning the woods for any signs of movement, senses sharpened to the utmost.

Athos halted abruptly, signing with a motion of his hand to stop. Through the bushes he had detected colors and shapes that didn't blend into the forest floor. In silence he quickly conveyed, with a few sparse movements of his eyes and a nod of his head, what everyone was expected to do, and they split up to encircle whatever it was they had stumbled upon. D'Artagnan moved to the right side as silent as a cat preying on its supper, creeping through the undergrowth without making any sound. Porthos headed in the other direction, and despite the magnitude of his body, he moved deftly and noiselessly and soon was out of sight. Athos waited for a couple of minutes then moved forward on the path, always staying hidden and never loosing sight of what lay before him.

Very soon it was clear that it was motionless bodies lying on the ground, no sign of horses or dogs or life at all. The campfire, whose smell Porthos had detected, was out and only a thin column of smoke drifted upwards, a clear sign that the fire had been trampled out only a short time ago. When Athos was near enough and certain his companions had made their way around, he stepped into the clearing, pistol in one hand, rapier in the other.

Taking two more steps he reached the body lying nearest to him and saw that the front of the man's head was almost gone, a great amount of blood coloring the earth underneath the body. Athos looked up and around, announcing to the quiet forest, “Seems they are all dead.” 

A few seconds later both Porthos and d'Artagnan entered the encampment from opposite sides, rapiers and pistols in their hands. All three men frantically examined the bodies on the quick, searching for a sign that one of them was Aramis. Their gazes met after a moment, perceiving the relief in the others' eyes. Even though all bodies except one lay face down, none of them had the marksman's stature or look.

“What happened here?” d'Artagnan asked, stepping up to one of the bodies and heaving the corpse over with his booted foot.

The man had been shot in the stomach. All in all they counted five dead bodies, and after a short inspection of the corpses they discovered that they very probably dealt with two different types of men. Two of them were rather fashionably dressed and wore expensive leather, while three were clad in rags. The encampment itself offered little information, besides the fire pit there was almost nothing else, a few broken things lying scattered over the forest floor. If there had been horses, weapons, blankets and other things one would need to camp or go on a hunting trip, it was all gone. Maybe there had not been much anyway. 

“I think we either stumbled over a camp set up by poachers or by gamekeepers in the pay of the duke, and one party must have stumbled over the other. And given the way it looks, it was quite a fight.” Athos had started to walk round the camp. “Or the two here were merchants and ambushed by highwaymen, and whatever they had carried along was stolen by the survivors.”

Porthos knelt down beside one of the men and took a closer look. “From the look of it these men were half starved. I imagine they must have been to a point where they were willing to risk getting caught by the duke's men for poaching rather than starve to death. At least, this here was a quicker death.” Porthos knew what he was talking about. In the streets of Paris he had seen too many people starving to death, and it had not been a pleasant sight. It was a long and painful death, and many a man or woman he had known had killed themselves out of despair, hazarding the consequences of having to burn in hell for all eternity instead of living one day longer in the hell they already lived in.

D'Artagnan picked up some tool from the ground, turning it to and fro. “Do either of you know what this is used for?”

Both Musketeers looked over at him, examining what d'Artagnan held in his hand. Porthos shrugged his shoulders. “No idea, maybe something you use for trapping? Skinning game?”

Athos shook his head, having no idea of the purpose of such a tool, and the young man let it drop. As a farm boy from Gascony he knew a lot about the hunting and skinning of animals, but he had never set eyes on something like this before.

If Aramis had been with them, he could have enlightened his brothers that this odd tool was called a Spanish tickler, developed by the Spanish inquisition to force confessions from whoever had the bad luck to get caught by those lunatics. But he was not, and so henceforth that tool lay forgotten on the ground where d'Artagnan had let it drop.

“D'Artagnan, go and fetch our horses. Porthos and I will stack up the bodies and cover them with branches. We have no time to bury them. Once we reach the next village we'll tell the villagers, they can send someone over to bury or identify them.”

When d'Artagnan came back with their horses, the bodies had already been dragged over to the side of the camp where they lay in a heap of bloodstained arms and legs. Porthos and Athos were in the process of covering the corpses and d'Artagnan helped to finish that task. When they were satisfied with their work, Athos gave the order to mount.

Porthos walked round the small camp once more, letting his eyes roam over the place again, taking in the few things that lay scattered around. Whatever they had stumbled upon here, it didn't help them in their search. Though he was glad they had not found Aramis' corpse here among the dead, he knew the chances of finding him had dropped drastically.

Porthos' eye caught something on the ground, a twinkling of some kind, but it was gone almost before Porthos' mind had realized it. He took a step closer but couldn't detect anything. Whatever it was, it was unimportant to their search, but he couldn't help taking another step forward nonetheless, searching the ground more closely.

“Porthos, come!”

“Aye, coming!” Porthos turned around to follow his captain's call, catching another blinking out of the corner of his eye in the sideways movement he made. Halfway turning he looked back down on the ground. There was something small hidden beneath the leaves and he bent down to pick it up, gaping when he saw what it was.

“Porthos!” Athos called again, but the big man stood motionless, looking down at his hand. “What is with him?” the comte asked d'Artagnan.

The young man just shrugged his shoulders, mounting his horse. “No idea. Porthos, let's go!” he yelled over to the other man.

When there still was no reaction from Porthos, Athos furrowed his brow, striding over to where the big man stood. Approaching his friend from the side, Athos saw the bigger man turn his head as in a trance, looking to him, blinking, and from his position Athos could have sworn a shimmer of tears glistened in the other man's eyes.

“It's his cross.” Porthos murmured nearly inaudibly, holding out his hand to Athos, and then, louder, “The one he was given by the queen. He never took it _off_. Never!”

Athos looked down on the outstretched hand, feeling numbness spreading inside him.

“He's been here.” Porthos whispered.

Indeed, Athos realized, it was Aramis' cross. The delicately chased gold with the five small rubies embedded, symbolizing the wounds of Christ on the cross, and the golden chain Aramis had added in extension of the shorter, tarnished chain. There was no doubt that this was his.

D'Artagnan, wondering what was going on on the other side of the small clearing, came over to see what it was Porthos showed their captain. He gasped out, “That's Aramis',” aware that his friends obviously had already recognized it as well, but unable to restrain himself from pointing it out likewise.

“He was here,” Porthos repeated with a flat voice, then swiveled on his boots' heels, frantically searching the encampment again. “Where is he? Damn it all! _What happened here_?!” 

His yell, echoing through the forest, caused a couple of birds high in the trees to take flight and once the flapping of their wings had faded away, an eerie silence settled over the forest.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time since he had been captured he was bound neither at his hands nor his feet. Instead of joy he felt hot tears pooling behind his eyelids. They had not bound him plainly because there was no need for it anymore. He was in no state to move, even less so to fight. He was a dying man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Savior must have been  
>  A docile Gentleman—  
>  To come so far so cold a Day  
>  For little Fellowmen—  
>   
>  The Road to Bethlehem  
>  Since He and I were Boys  
>  Was leveled, but for that ‘twould be  
>  A rugged Billion Miles—  
>   
> 
> 
>   
> It's Christmas! A time of joy and hope and love and wonder. So I thought it would be nice for our boys to be able to share some of that hope and wonder and joy and brotherly love.... ;-)
> 
> Thank you for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. **Merry Christmas**!

_Several hours earlier_

A kick to his stomach woke Aramis and he retched even before he was fully awake. Muffled laughter and words he couldn't capture reached his ears, then the fading sound of hooves. Keeping his eyes closed he waited, but nothing more happened, and he drifted off again.

When he came to again later he was shivering, the constant contractions of his muscles intensifying the aches caused by numerous wounds and injuries. The infection-induced fever had set in a few days ago and he had begun to see things that were not there. One moment he was shivering, the next heat was consuming him. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to die. 

For an indefinite time he lay on the cold ground, his mind shifting between awareness and hallucination. At some point he became aware that no one had come to him to start torturing and asking questions. During another state of awareness he realized that he still lay where he had dropped the evening before. And a moment later he was overwhelmed by the cognizance that he _was not bound!_ For the first time since he had been captured he was bound neither at his hands nor his feet. Instead of joy he felt hot tears pooling behind his eyelids. They had not bound him plainly because there was no need for it anymore. He was in no state to move, even less so to fight. He was a dying man. 

By the time the sun had reached its peak, Aramis heard someone coming his way and a moment later he was turned on his back, unable to do anything about it. He was hauled to the tree trunk behind him and dumped against it halfway sitting upright, albeit a little hunched. Opening his eyes, Aramis was surprised it was not a knife or any other instrument of torture hovering before his eyes, but a waterskin and a chunk of bread. 

Gazing up to the man, Aramis could have sworn he saw something like respect flashing in the Spaniard's eyes when he threw bread and waterskin into Aramis' lap. But maybe that was just another of his mind's imaginings. Looking down to what lay in his lap he tried to remember when he had last been given something to eat or drink. He was sure he wouldn't be able to stomach the bread, but the water was a blessing. He drank greedily, the cool liquid running down his throat like the sweetest gift from heaven, soothing his pains momentarily. Sacrificing a little of the water to bedew his face, he tried to wash away some of the blood and grime, but was hardly able to lift his arm nor did his hand respond the way he wanted it to. Abandoning that attempt, he let his gaze wander over the small camp, bread lying forgotten in his lap, and he noticed that only the Spaniard and one other man were there, and two of the horses were gone. Maybe, _hopefully_ , it would be another day without torture. Nothing was left inside him to counter these men with, no strength, no hope, no will to survive. He simply wanted to pass away. _Please, Lord, have mercy..._

*******

“ _Merde!_ ” Porthos hollered, putting all his frustration and fear into the curse.

Athos, giving Porthos' shoulder a calming pat, looked up and eyed the cut rope hanging from a branch above their heads. It had definitely not been used to hang meat or game, more likely their missing friend had been bound to it. He forced himself not to let his mind wander to all the possibilities one could do to a man hanging from a rope. 

“Search this place again. Look for anything. If Aramis was being held captive here, then maybe there was an ambush and two of his captors were killed, if we presume the leather-clad men were in the pay of the duke. Either the other two escaped with Aramis, or whoever has ambushed them took them as prisoners.” 

Searching in and around the camp, they looked more closely now for anything out of the ordinary, any trace, anything that might hint at the whereabouts of the missing men.

“Over here!” Porthos hollered a short time later. He had detected snapped off branches and disordered leaves on the ground, pointing to another small path beside the one they had followed from the main road, leading away from the camp. A trace they decided to follow, after both Athos and d'Artagnan had studied the sparse tracks.

“Let's go,” Athos ordered; staring at his horse he tried to decide whether he should mount or if it was wiser to follow the tracks through the woods on foot.

D'Artagnan walked away again without comment and both elder Musketeers looked after him a little bit puzzled, waiting for an explanation. Porthos glanced to Athos, shrugging his shoulders. He had no idea what the young man had not understood in the brief order from their captain.

The Gascon crouched on the far side of the camp, moving his head to and fro. “Here,” d'Artagnan shouted, “there is a small trace, too. Someone walked here; looks like he was bleeding.” He looked over his shoulder to his friends.

After a moment's hesitation, both Athos and Porthos walked over to the young man. Neither saw anything in the area of the ground d'Artagnan pointed to. 

Athos raised his eyebrow. “Where?”

D'Artagnan eyed the older man insecurely, studying the captain's face for a second or two. Looking down in front of him again he gestured impatiently, “Here! Can't you see it?”

Crouching down beside the Gascon, both men studied the area even more closely.

“Nope,” Porthos answered.

D'Artagnan huffed, pointing here and there and grunting incomprehensibly, until finally his companions saw what he meant. 

“Which one do we follow?” Porthos summed up the situation.

Athos scratched his beard, traveling the so-called path with his eyes. “The one over there looks like at least two or three people walked there, while this here,” he paused, “I can't tell if it's the trail of a man or an animal.”

D'Artagnan rose and walked a few steps away, following a trail that remained invisible to the other two. “A man walked here, though I'd call it rather a shuffle than walk. And here you can clearly see a boot print.” He looked back expectantly to the elder men. “I would follow this trail here. If they were ambushed, maybe Aramis was able to escape.”

Seeing and sympathizing with the begging look on the young man's face, Athos decided to give it a try. Maybe d'Artagnan was right and Aramis _had_ been able to benefit from whatever had taken place here and escaped. “Alright, we will follow this trail. But you'll have to lead. I can hardly see any traces here.”

“Yeah, I always knew it was clever to recruit a farm boy from Gascony. Good tracker and so on. I bet he can even milk a cow if need be!” Porthos smirked, winking at the young man before going to retrieve their horses.

The Gascon was a godsend in regard to following the track they had found, a natural gift for a boy born and raised on a farm. A couple of times they lost sight of the track, sparse as it was, but again and again d'Artagnan's sharp eyes found signs of a wounded man making his way through the woods. And if they were interpreting the increasing number of snapped branches, ruffled leaves and torn up soil correctly, the man had stumbled and fallen more than once, and dragged his feet as if in great exhaustion. 

For almost an hour they followed the tracks, often leading them through undergrowth so thick they could only walk in single file and had problems guiding their horses through. Though the sun began to set over the forest, subduing the light between the trees, it was still hot in the shady forest despite the light breeze that fluttered through the leaves from time to time. None of them noticed or cared about the sweat forming on their brows and running down the spine, eyes and attentiveness solely fixed on the forest, scanning for any sign of life. 

Simultaneously they spotted a bit of white through the trees ahead and stopped, Athos clutching the pommel of his rapier, the other two reaching for pistols. A tiny shift of the position changed Athos' angle of vision and he saw boots and leather-clad legs, identifying the bundle on the ground as a human body. Athos nodded sharply to his companions, unsheathing his rapier silently, but even as he did so, he knew whom they had found. He recognized the boots. In a few quick steps he rounded a small fir and some withered bushes, heart pounding heavily in his chest, his head strangely light with the increased velocity his blood pumped through his veins. Having an unobstructed view of the small clearing some yards away from him now, he stopped dead in his tracks and took in the sight before him. 

Aramis' lifeless body lay slumped to the side in front of a tree. His shirt had been ripped open at the front, revealing numerous swollen, red-rimmed, infected cuts, some barely closed, covering his chest. The side of the face Athos could see from where he stood was black and blue with bruises, a cut over the left eyebrow had left trails of dried blood along the side of Aramis' temple, his hair was matted and dirty. On the right leg there was a large dark stain, almost black with blood, more blood, too much of it, on the ground.

He had not heard his companions moving, but now Athos felt the silent presence of his brothers beside him, knowing it would fall to him to check for any sign of life left. Allowing himself another few seconds to brace for the task that lay ahead, Athos sheathed his rapier slowly and took a deep breath. Stepping forward with surprisingly firm fortitude he covered the short distance with a few strides. He would never admit it, but when he knelt beside Aramis, pulling off his glove to feel for the pulse, his hands were trembling. 

Athos' fingers gently touched Aramis' neck, just below the jaw bone, finding it was rough with blood and dirt and stubble. Other than that, he felt nothing. Athos pressed his fingers a little deeper into the skin, aware of Porthos and d'Artagnan's eyes resting on him. Seconds passed. Still he felt nothing. Closing his eyes, Athos let his head drop, sheer despair on the brink of getting the better of him.

“Come on Aramis,” he whispered, “please don't do this to me!” There! Athos' head shot up, his eyes searching the spot where his fingers touched Aramis' skin, hardly daring to trust his sensitive nerves. He had sensed something.... A throb, a faint pulsation, no more than the flap of a butterfly's wing, but it had been there, tickling his fingertips.

Athos pressed his fingers even deeper. There, there it was.... Not dead. Briefly closing his eyes again, Athos let a sigh escape his lips, then repeated it, aloud, with a slightly modified choice of words. “He lives!”

Porthos was over in a split second, dropping to his knees even before he was fully there, touching his brother's beaten and abused cheeks. “Aramis,” he choked, “wake up. What have they done to you?”

D'Artagnan remained where he was, still shocked by the appearance of his friend, not yet fully aware of the fact that it was not a corpse he was staring at. Another few heartbeats passed, pounding heavily in his chest, until he grasped the meaning of his captain's words. Breathing shakily, he slowly made his way over to where Athos and Porthos knelt beside the beaten body.

Athos tried to rouse Aramis, shaking his shoulder lightly, calling his name again and again. Porthos changed his position, carefully stretching out the marksman's legs, being extra gentle with the wounded one.

“D'Artagnan,” Athos called without looking away from Aramis, “bring my saddle bag.”

*******

Aramis sensed something disturbing the dark void he floated in, a nagging feeling that didn't belong here and he tried to shrug it off. It remained, a feeling as if something was tugging at him, at his shoulder, but he didn't want to be jiggled and tugged at, he wanted to continue drifting in that painless, black state of nothingness. Here, he was at ease and had never before felt so content and at peace with himself. He heard sounds, too, a sound with such an urgency in its timbre he wondered where it arose from. Someone desperately calling for somebody, or so it seemed. Then there was something else, a deep moan or groan, and again, he wondered where it came from. The tugging continued and suddenly, as if a switch in his head had turned, he felt PAIN raging through his body, heard his name being called, insistently. Something was shaking his shoulder, didn't it know how much pain this caused? A deep groan emerged, from him, he realized, unable to hold it back. He forced his eyes to open, succeeding only with vigorous effort and very slowly.

Aramis stared into the face of Athos.

“Thank God, Aramis. For a moment there you gave me quite a fright!” the older man voiced, but somehow it was not the comte's voice, for it sounded husky and distraught, and strangely disconnected to the man.

Aramis smiled. Despite the unbearable pain and hurt his body was screaming with, he smiled. He knew he was hallucinating, or maybe dreaming, but oh it felt so good to have his brother here, _even if_ it was only in his imagination, _even if_ his mind was playing tricks on him.

“Athos,” Aramis breathed, though he wasn't sure if anything came out of his mouth, other than a light breeze. It didn't matter either way, imagined friends certainly didn't mind if they were addressed properly or not. The face above him smiled as well, and _that_ was proof enough that he was hallucinating. He could not remember having ever seen a smile such as the one gracing the comte's facial features.

Though, Aramis' mind started wandering, there had been that one occasion.... His musing was interrupted by a violent stab of pain in his leg, causing another scream of agony to escape. He realized, in surprise, there were more hands tugging at his body. Someone was fiddling with his legs, but if he was only imagining these figures, why could they not be gentler and let him sleep? His muddled mind could not understand why they were causing him more pain. Was he already in heaven with God's angels trying to soothe his pain? If so, they were doing a hell of an awful job. And anyway, why in God's name did they look like Athos and not like ethereal, curly blonde beings? Wasn't that how angels were supposed to look? Aramis thoughts drifted again....

“Aramis,” the figure of Athos addressed him gently again, “stay with me. Please. We are here now.”

He was too tired to obey Athos' plea, too exhausted and worn out from fighting the injuries and pain that had bathed his whole body for so long. Aramis slowly closed his eyes again, leaning into the cupped hand that held his head and was stroking his cheek lightly with its thumb. He would hold on to this touch for as long as his mind supported the imaginary feel of it, and beg for the sensation to last until he finally fell asleep for the last time. 

“Aramis, open your eyes or I swear you'll regret it like you've never regretted anythin' in your life before!”

Porthos? He _had_ to open his eyes again. If only it wasn't such a difficult task, a task he had no strength left to muster. Seldom had he heard such a fury in the big man's frightened voice. Frightened.... Why did Porthos sound so fearful? Aramis struggled and strained, finally succeeding in lifting his eyelids once more, looking right into the faces of Athos and Porthos. Despite the harsh voice with which the big man had spoken, his mien was gentle and full of fear.

Aramis blinked. Uncomprehending.

“Athos, we should hurry!”

Aramis recognized whom this voice belonged to, the Gascon accent all too distinct in the few words. D'Artagnan. Could it be that his mind was _not_ playing tricks on him, could this be real? The pain felt damn real, so why not everything else? The delicate seed of hope that had planted itself more firmly in his heart with each word and touch of his brothers started to grow. He felt it spreading over his body like a warm blanket, easing the pain that had been his constant companion for too long. His friend's faces still hovered over him and he tried to ask Porthos if they were real, if they were really here, with him. Despite his effort his voice was useless, but Porthos seemed to know exactly what he had wanted to ask nevertheless. The big man smiled at him.

“Don't worry. You are safe now, we have you,” Porthos answered, stroking through Aramis' hair, brushing some errant strands out of the sweat-soaked face. More seriously he added, “I'm sorry, but we have to move and I'm sure it'll cause you more pain, but there's no other way.”

Aramis nodded, or at least tried to, and wanted to respond, but a flash of pain erased every thought, his world turning blazing white before he plunged into pitch-black darkness again.

*******

With joint effort the Musketeers worked on the limp form of Aramis. Their friend had gained consciousness once for a couple of moments, leaving them incredibly relieved, even though they all had seen the disbelief in their brother's eyes and the fever and pain that flickered in the unnaturally big and glazed orbs. Overwhelmed by pain, the marksman had fallen unconscious again, which was unfortunate, but it also meant they could work more quickly on the wounded man without having to worry that their efforts created further pain and so they were content with it.

Athos checked the upper torso, covered in bruises, half-healed cuts and nasty gashes, and what felt like broken ribs. The skin was hot with fever, not unexpected with the infected wounds that littered the man's body. Other than the cut on the brow, split lips and bruises in every color from light yellow to almost black no serious wounds were found on the head. The left hand was swollen and blue, and when Athos palpated the wrist, he assumed it was broken rather than sprained.

The leg, however, was what worried them most. Aramis had obviously lost a lot of blood, for the earth around the leg was still damp. The wound itself had stopped bleeding but they could not detect from a first look if it had originated from a bullet, dagger or something else. When they cut away the dirty piece of cloth Aramis evidently had tried to wrap around it in a rather clumsy attempt to stop the flow of blood, they saw that the wound was jagged. On the back of the thigh they found an exit wound, small and precise, so they guessed it was a bullet that had hit their friend, though they had no idea what had caused the entry wound to look so shredded.

They treated the wounds as thoroughly and swiftly as was possibly under the circumstances, but knew Aramis needed more adept medical help than any of them was able to give. And he needed it quickly.

“Let's assume the camp we found was where Aramis was held and tortured. Assuming further the two better dressed men lying dead in that encampment belonged to the group of four the innkeeper's wife described, then there are still two of them unaccounted for,” Athos declared, carefully wrapping a bandage around Aramis' broken wrist. “The other three certainly were poachers or highwaymen, maybe accidentally stumbling over the camp, but I'm not sure why there were only two of the captors. Where are the others?” Though the question was a rhetorical one, he still hoped for some input from the others.

Porthos finished with the bandage around the bullet wound, cutting off the edges of the fabric with his dagger. “That Gaston definitely was not amongst them, at least not unless he managed to grow his hair that long within a couple of days,” he muttered. “Could it be the rest of the group chased after any surviving highwaymen?” Porthos looked to his captain. “Or maybe they split up earlier, or had to report to the duke. _If_ the duke is involved.” Porthos' hands hovered over Aramis' body, twitching with the desire and need to do more than the little they were able to accomplish right here and now.

“If Gaston and the other go back to the camp and find Aramis gone they will come after him,” d'Artagnan voiced, clearly trying to speak around the lump in his throat that seemed to have taken residence there from the moment he had laid eyes on Aramis.

Athos had already considered this possibility as well and nodded. “Whoever they are and for whatever reason they captured Aramis in the first place, they certainly are dangerous.” And a threat he was not willing to underestimate. With the help of d'Artagnan, Athos wrapped a bandage around the upper torso of the unconscious man. This would fix the arm with the broken hand as well as support the broken ribs; if only rather poorly. “No matter whether the group split up earlier or only recently after the ambush, we must be cautious. Even more so since we are still deep in enemy territory.” Athos rose and went to stow away his saddle bags. He knew that as soon as Spain answered the war declaration, they would be enemy soldiers and shot _de jure_ on sight if discovered on Spanish soil. Another reason to reach the French border as fast as possible. 

“Let's go,” Athos ordered, watching Porthos carefully lift their injured friend off the ground. “Once we are back in France and Aramis regains consciousness, hopefully he can answer some questions about the whereabouts of Gaston and what happened here.”

They followed the same trail they had come from, once again passing the campsite where Aramis very probably had been held prisoner. As before, getting through the thick undergrowth wasn't easy and they had to walk most of the time, Porthos carrying his wounded friend stoically until they could mount again.

It took almost an hour to reach the main route. It went without saying that Aramis rode with Porthos, a matter of fact the other two Musketeers accepted implicitly. Once Aramis was safely placed in front of Porthos, the bigger man's arms encircling his brother protectively, they urged their horses into a rising trot, any faster pace out of the question with their unconscious and badly wounded friend. Athos and d'Artagnan kept a lookout for any signs of life. If in doubt they had agreed to shoot first and ask questions later should they come across anyone. It took them another two hours to reach the southern entrance of the forest, two miles later they were on French soil again. Luckily, they had not encountered one single soul on their way back to France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman_ by Emily Dickinson   
> 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Porthos' careful tending through the rest of the night, by morning Aramis was no better and had, in fact, reopened some of the wounds on his chest. And he remained unconscious.

When they reached Lillers, the Inseparables, finally complete again, stopped at the first inn they came across to ask for a room. They dismounted in the yard, Porthos handing down his wounded friend to Athos and d'Artagnan, when the door opened, a man stepping out.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” the man greeted, holding the lantern in his hand a little higher to get a better look at the new arrivals. He eyed the men suspiciously, especially once he became aware of the limp form of Aramis hanging between d'Artagnan and Athos.

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” Porthos replied, sliding down his horse, a thud sounding through the yard when his feet connected with the ground. He took a step towards the man at the door. “We need a room. Are you the innkeeper?” It was not yet growled, but the threatening stature of Porthos did the rest.

As soon as the innkeeper saw the pauldrons and realized he was dealing with the King's Musketeers, he hurriedly invited them in. 

“Please, Messieurs, come in, I'll show you a room.” Holding the door open for the Musketeers, he let them enter, the soldiers half dragging, half carrying the wounded man between them. “Up the stairs,” the innkeeper declared, already brushing past them to lead the way.

It was not easy to get Aramis up the stairs, the stairway was too narrow for more than two men side by side, but finally Porthos carried the marksman alone and they reached the room.

The small commotion attracted the innkeeper's wife. She hurried up the stairs behind the Musketeers and tried to get a glimpse of what was going on in the room but couldn't see past the men who momentarily blocked the doorway.

“Lay him down here, it's our biggest room. Ninette, stoke the fire,” the innkeeper ordered, spotting his wife in the hallway. To the Musketeers, he added, “What else do you need?”

“Send for a doctor, our comrade is badly wounded. And if you could bring us bottles of wine and some hard liquor and bandages or towels,” Athos answered. “And tell the boy to bring up our saddlebags.” They had left the horses to their own devices and Athos wondered now if there was a stable boy at all, he hadn't seen, or at least not noticed, one. _It doesn't matter, the innkeeper can look after the horses himself_ , he thought. He had more important things to see to now. 

If the innkeeper wondered about a request for wine and liquor so short after their arrival, he didn't let it show; if the Musketeers craved alcohol, he would not be the one to deny them. And he wisely chose not to comment. Had he asked, Porthos would very likely have snarled at him that if he knew of something better suited to disinfect wounds and soothe a man's pain than liquor and wine, he was welcome to speak up.

“Coming up, monsieur,” the innkeeper replied, handing another log from the basket with firewood to his wife who had busied herself at the fireplace.

When the fire burned brightly, Athos shooed the innkeeper and his wife out of the room, closing the door behind them. Now they could start caring for Aramis.

Porthos was already kneeling beside the bed, his hand reaching for the cloth that lay beside the washing basin on the nightstand. He wet the cloth with cold water, gently dabbing at Aramis' shirt to soak the fabric stuck to the chest caked with blood. “I hope the madame brings hot water, it would make this easier,” he mumbled, more to himself. “Though the cold water might not be the worst of ideas, given how you burn with fever.”

Athos stepped up to the other side of the bed, bending down to help peel the shirt from the skin where Porthos had managed to soak the fabric. The comte's eyes strayed from his hand's tasks every so often, looking over his brother's body for more injuries, obvious or hidden, eager to eventually strip down the marksman to get an unobstructed view of all the wounds and damage that had been inflicted on him. “D'Artagnan,” Athos addressed the young man who stood at the foot of the bed.

D'Artagnan did not react, staring wide-eyed at the man on the bed, seemingly lost in observation.

“D'Artagnan,” the captain tried once again, “can you help me with the shirt? I would like to get these rags off of him sooner rather than later.”

The Gascon's eyes moved until they found his mentor's gaze. “Of course,” d'Artagnan finally answered after a moment's silence, roused from his stupor at last, and stepped around the bed to help his companions.

Before long they were able to pull the shirt free from Aramis' body, the sight causing gasps as nausea rose instantly. Aramis' whole upper torso was covered in dark, large bruises, and ugly, infected gashes stretched from his shoulders down to the stomach.

A knock at the door interrupted them in their physical examination. The innkeeper brought the saddlebags, and his wife a tray with various bottles of liquor, warm water and towels. “Our son is on his way to fetch the medic,” the innkeeper declared, placing the saddlebags on the table.

D'Artagnan relieved the woman of the tray and dismissed both with a brusque, “Thank you,” lingering behind them until they were finally out of the door. The young Gascon hadn't meant to be rude, but with Aramis' beaten body lying on the bed he couldn't stand to have the couple in the room, trying to get a glimpse of his wounded brother.

As soon as the door closed, Athos and Porthos made short process of pulling off the boots and cutting away the breeches and braies, throwing everything in a heap beside the fire place. D'Artagnan returned to the bed after he had placed the tray on the table. All the men stilled for a moment, taking in the state of their friend's body. With a kind of macabre relief they observed that most of the wounds had been inflicted only for the purpose of hurting. And causing tremendous pain, not to injure mortally. Yet, they all knew that often it was not the wound itself but the infection that killed in the end.

Porthos, still kneeling beside the bed, moved his hands over Aramis' legs with a gentleness no one would expect from a man of Porthos' stature. “I can feel no broken bones, the bullet wound seems to be the worst lesion here. Some of the cuts are infected, though.”

Yet, they all saw that the ankles were swollen and the skin grazed where ropes had cut into the flesh and bruises covered a good part of both legs.

“Here are at least two ribs broken,” Athos stated, prodding at Aramis' ribcage on the right side. Moving his hands back to the left side, he added, “Here's one either broken or cracked.”

The comte continued his examination, his hands sweeping both extremities, which showed mottled bruising in every shade of color and a few cuts, but he detected no more broken bones. Apart from Aramis' left hand, which they already knew of.

“His hands must have been bound for a long time. Look how deeply grazed the skin is, swollen and infected.” D'Artagnan had wet a cloth and was trying to soften the bloody crusts on both wrist to see how serious the incisions were. The water did not have the immediate intended effect, nor was this the most urgent action to see to, but it gave the young man the chance to busy his hands and keep his thoughts from wandering. With a task at hand he had something to concentrate on, other than the frightening condition they had found their brother in.

While doffing the unconscious man's shirt, Athos had seen that Aramis' back looked very much the same as his whole body did, covered in a colorful array of bruises, but thankfully no open wounds. Aramis' shoulders, however, were strangely swollen, bigger than they would be normally, and the shoulder blades bulging on the back. “I'm not sure if lying on his back is less painful than any other position, but due to lack of better alternatives he will have to bear it.”

Porthos nodded without looking up from the bullet wound he gently palpated. “He'll understand, don't worry.” It was an excuse and absolution not only for Athos, but also for himself; neither of them wished to add more torment to their friend and loathed being helpless against this right now. Porthos had heard the tightness in the other man's voice, and realized that this was more than a simple statement from their captain; he knew what the older man needed to hear.

Finished with this first physical inventory, Athos unpacked the saddlebags, handing off the things he thought they would need for treatment to either Porthos or d'Artagnan as he assigned duties. “Porthos, see to the bullet wound. D'Artagnan, you'll help me. Bring the water and grab some of the towels.”

There was far more to clean up than just the pus-filled wounds on Aramis' bare chest; Athos took a cloth and began to wash away layer after layer of grit and grime and dried blood. D'Artagnan, standing beside the comte with towels, cautiously patted the skin and wounds dry, careful in his ministrations. Every now and then, when the water became too filthy with blood and grime to use it any longer, d'Artagnan exchanged it for a clean bowl.

Porthos busied himself with the leg, cleaning it with warm water he had poured into the washing basin on the nightstand and disinfecting the wound before he spread out the sewing kit. Studying the lesion for a while he considered how best to sew the frayed skin.

They worked in silence, everyone concentrating on what he was doing and dwelling on his own thoughts. What worried them most was the high fever and the fact that Aramis had lost too much blood and not gained consciousness again since when they had first found him. The fact of this circumstance hung heavily between them in the quiet room. Another knock on the door interrupted the stillness and after a nod from Athos, d'Artagnan walked over to open the door.

A fragile, old woman, bowed down by age, with a shriveled face and white hair tied up in a chignon, stood stooped on the threshold, a big basket hanging from her arm. “You have sent for medical aid, messieurs?” she asked, already stepping into the room.

Both men working over Aramis looked up and, upon catching sight of the woman, suddenly became aware of the fact that their companion on the bed was, effectively, nude.

Before any of them could even move to cover at least Aramis' private parts or say anything at all, the old woman chuckled. “Don't look so embarrassed, messieurs, this is not the first nude man I have seen. My husband, God rest his soul, served with King Henry and I have four sons. There are no parts of a man's body I have not seen. Or treated.” While speaking she had moved into the room, stopping beside the bed. Taking in the state of the body in front of her she said nothing for quite some time.

Porthos had stopped with his doings but had not shifted one inch away from Aramis, hovering over his wounded friend. His message was clear. He would fight tooth and nails against whatever or whomever came too close to Aramis without his permission. Athos had moved to the side to give the woman access to the patient, clenching his hand unconsciously to keep it from grabbing the pommel of his rapier. D'Artagnan stepped behind Athos after he had closed the door, watching the woman narrowly.

“Who are you, Madame, if I may ask,” Athos questioned in a neutral tone, suspicion tinging his voice too lightly to be heard by anyone other than his brothers.

“My name is Bertrande. The innkeeper's son came to fetch me, said you needed someone experienced in treating an injured man. That poor boy has suffered a lot, I see.” She looked up to Porthos, then turned her eyes on Athos. “I'm no doctor or barber surgeon, but I have treated a lot of wounds in my life, childhood ailments and work accidents as well as battle wounds. I think I can help your friend, as long as you trust me.” She glanced over to Porthos again, aware of the protectiveness all the men radiated. “I see you serve the son, Louis. King's Musketeers they are called nowadays, right? Always lots of trouble and pain for those close to the crowned heads,” she muttered, shaking her head slightly.

Athos quickly looked over to Porthos to size up the other man's reaction; they would need every bit of help they could get to treat Aramis. Neither of them had much experience with infected wounds and the consequent fever, the extent of their medical knowledge narrowed down to sewing wounds, stopping blood flow and setting bones. With Aramis at their side, they had never had to learn more. They had always relied on their designated healer and marksman to take care of such things. Not once had it occurred to any of them that Aramis might not always be at their side to instruct them. 

“We very much appreciate your help.” Athos stated, Porthos emphasizing it with a nod, and just now the comte realized that they had not introduced themselves. “My name is Athos, this is Porthos and d'Artagnan. Our friend here is called Aramis.”

“What can we do?” d'Artagnan asked, shuffling impatiently behind the woman, eager to continue with their care for Aramis. To look at the battered body on the bed was hard for the young man, he could hardly stand how very still Aramis lay there, bathed in a feverish sweat and bruises and wounds.

“I need boiled water and cups for a concoction against the fever and the infection, and something for a mixture to ease the pain. Bring a bucket with cold water from the well, too. And towels. We have to clean the wounds and sew the worst of them, then we can apply a healing ointment and bandage them. But foremost, the fever needs to come down.” The herb-wife touched Aramis' forehead and frowned, then ran her wrinkled hand down the side of his face tenderly. “Wrap his legs in towels drenched in cold water. Do the same with his arms and the forehead.” She paused for a moment. “And maybe you should cover his private parts. I think despite being unconscious now he will be thankful for it later.” Chuckling, she shuffled over to the table where she began unpacking things from her basket.

D'Artagnan hurriedly grabbed one of the dry towels and threw it over Aramis' lower body parts, his eye shifting to Porthos. The big man smirked upon seeing the look on the Gascon's face. D'Artagnan huffed and left the room to fetch water.

Athos had followed Bertrande with his eyes, a little stunned by the straightforwardness of the woman. She seemed to be a practical lady with a no-nonsense attitude. He thought he liked her.

“Have you checked for internal injuries? How long has he been unconscious?” While speaking, the old woman took out several small containers, a few bottles with liquids, and also a kit that contained most likely surgical instruments, which she placed on the table. “Was he able to tell you anything about his injuries? Has he complained about inner aches? Nausea?”

“We found him unconscious and he was awake only for a few minutes, unable to tell us anything,” Athos answered. “We don't know about internal injuries, but he has broken and cracked ribs, a broken wrist and the bullet wound in the leg.” He paused for a moment. “The rest you can see.”

“Mhmm, I see,” the herb-wife mumbled, busying herself with her bottles and containers, checking to see if she had the right ingredients for salves, enough powder for a concoction, and herbs and tinctures to start with the injured man's treatment. 

When d'Artagnan was back with a bucket of cold water, heaving it up on the small table beside Aramis' bed, he informed the others, “I asked the innkeeper's wife to bring bowls and boiled water. I think it won't be long, she already had a kettle over the fire.” While speaking, the young man's eyes sought the marksman's form on the bed as if gravitating there without his volition.

Athos, who had been studying his young protégé more closely over the last hours, instructed d'Artagnan to help him with covering Aramis' legs and arms with soaked towels, starting their task after the herb-wife had added finely chopped chickweed to the water.

Porthos had remained sitting in front of Aramis' leg, needle and thread still in his hands. Now he looked expectantly to the old woman when she came over to the bed again, waiting for a sign that he should continue with his task or if she was going to suggest something else.

The woman bent over the leg to inspect the wound. “Did you retrieve the bullet or was it a straight-through wound?” She stabbed a little at the ragged wound.

“There is a clean exit wound on the back, so we think the bullet is not stuck in there. No idea why the edges are so frayed, though.”

“It seems the hole was ripped open by something else after the shot. Maybe he stumbled and scratched it open with a branch. You have already disinfected it?”

Porthos nodded, “Aye, I did.”

“Then you can sew it, I'll give you an ointment to apply before you bandage it.”

After the maid had brought boiled water and bowls, Athos and d'Artagnan cleansed the wounds thoroughly. The old woman added sitherwood, columbine and archangel to the water and explained that it would help to disinfect the wounds. While the Musketeers worked, she prepared brews and concoctions, and the ointment she eventually handed over to Porthos once he had finished with closing the bullet wound.

“Young man,” the woman addressed d'Artagnan, “change the damp towels, I doubt they are cooling any longer.”

D'Artagnan did so, and then hurried out of the room to fetch fresh, cool water from the well.

Porthos finished with the leg wound, only now vacating his place to wash his hands and stow away the sewing kit. Then he moved back to sit beside the bed, just as the herb-wife came over again.

The old woman examined Aramis' body more thoroughly now, from head to toe, prodding here and there and also lifting Aramis' eyelids to inspect the eyes. When she was content with her examination she straightened herself with a soft groan, pressing one hand to her back. “I would recommend the fractured wrist be reduced again, it's not set properly. I can do this, but whoever of you did it the first time, can do it again. It's not difficult, I'll show you, you just have to make sure the fingers are bent slightly before you wrap it again.” She glanced at both men, before continuing, “Then you can apply ointment to every cut and gash. Put a great deal of it on every wound, I can always make more. And then you can bind the broken ribs, I'm sure Musketeers are experienced at doing this.” She smiled, and even more so when she saw the confirmation on the men's faces that she had hit home with her remark.

“Some o' those cuts are deep and should be sewed,” Porthos tossed in, waving vaguely to the cuts on Aramis' chest.

“Before we can close them we have to extract the infection, and the pus has to drain off. The ointment will help.”

Porthos nodded his understanding, watching the herb-wife bend over Aramis again.

“I'll prepare another salve for the shoulders. I don't like the way they look, wonder what he has done to them. The swelling needs to go down before I can check if there is anything broken or torn,” the old woman stated when she had finished her examination of Aramis' shoulders.

Just then the door opened and d'Artagnan came back with another bucket and the innkeeper in tow.

“Messieurs, is there anything else you need? I can send up a stew and bread if you want to eat here rather than downstairs in the taproom.” The innkeeper glanced over to the bed where Aramis lay, small and frail, displaying ugly wounds on a sweat-soaked body. ”Ah, err, of course after you are finished with patching up your friend,” the innkeeper added hurriedly, withdrawing to the door.

“We'll let you know when we need anything else, monsieur,” Athos said, dismissing the man without looking up, continuing with putting salve on Aramis' wounds, joined by d'Artagnan again.

“Very well,” the proprietor muttered and closed the door.

When every wound had been treated thoroughly and Aramis was covered in bandages, Bertrande explained to them how and when they should dose Aramis with her concoctions.

“It's vital to bring down the fever and get the infection out of him. You must give him this one every two hours.” She displayed a bowl, then held up another. “This here is for the pain, it should be sufficient if he drinks a little of it about every third or fourth hour. If he wakes up or is clearly in pain, give him a little more. Besides this, he needs to drink. Water or a broth if you can manage to get it into him, but you have to try. He _needs_ to drink. Continue with the cold cloths, but pause when he starts to shiver, add this to the water.” The woman had handed over the respective bowls to Athos and now beheld Aramis once more. “I can't see into him, but I have not detected any signs for internal bleeding or injuries. If he has a concussion or something worse we'll only see when he wakes. If you do as instructed, the fever should be down by tomorrow and he will hopefully wake up. I'll come in the morning to check on him.” She turned to the table and started to pack her things into the basket. With her back to the men standing around the bed, she added, “You all should eat and sleep. _À demain, messieurs.”_

D'Artagnan rushed to the door to open it for her. “Thank you, madame. Thank you very much for your help.” The smile he offered her was a pale imitation of his usual beaming smile.

“ _De rien,_ ” she replied, briefly patting his cheek. Then she was through the door, shuffling down the hallway as was old women's wont.

Turning around after he had closed the door, d'Artagnan found himself confronted with both Porthos and Athos looking at him.

“You look tired, d'Artagnan,” Athos stated. “Eat something and then get some sleep. Porthos and I will take the first round.”

“Aye,” Porthos said, “I will get something to eat and drink for all.” Motioning to Athos with one hand, he added, “Get some of that stuff into him.”

Athos nodded and lifted Aramis' head, prodding softly at the unconscious man's lips with the bowl, trying to make him swallow some of the liquid.

D'Artagnan came over, rounding the other side of the bed. Together they managed to get some of the concoction of both bowls into their friend, gently lowering the marksman's head down onto the pillow afterwards.

Athos covered Aramis with a light blanket, leaving arms and legs unprotected for an easy handling of the towels they had to change every so often. Pretending to feel for temperature, Athos gently stroked the sweaty brow, lingering a short moment to behold the battered face of his brother. Regaining the composure he had lost for a moment, he straightened, rose, and moved to the table.

Porthos came back with bread, cheese and dried meat, and two bottles of wine, putting it on the table. After a quick glance towards Aramis to make sure he had an unobstructed view of the bed, he grabbed a chair and sat down. Athos filled a cup with wine and gulped down most of its content, fully intending to still his non-existent hunger with liquid rather than something more nutritious. He had, however, reckoned without Porthos, who shoved a plate with bread and meat in front of Athos, accompanying his gesture with an unyielding frown. Exhaling a deep sigh, Athos grabbed the bread, biting off a big chunk.

A smile ghosted the corners of his mouth as d'Artagnan chewed on a piece of meat, washing it down with a sip of his wine. When they had finished eating, d'Artagnan made use of the chamber pot, heading out of the room to empty it and bring back another fresh bucket of cold water. He put the bucket down beside the bed and grabbed for the dried cloths on Aramis legs, but his arm was stopped by his captain.

“Go get some sleep,” Athos commanded, “I'll see to it.”

The young man hesitated for a moment, looking down at Aramis, then nodded and retired to the empty bed, kicking off his boots on the way. He slumped onto the mattress and closed his eyes, but it was a long time before he finally fell asleep.

Athos followed the motions of their youngest with his eyes until the Gascon curled up on the bed. Then he turned his attention back to Aramis, replacing the dried cloths with fresh, cold towels.

Porthos settled himself at the foodboard of Aramis' bed, a sorrowful look on his face. “He will make it, right?” he asked the older man, but didn't wait for an answer. “Who did this to him, and why?”

“I have no idea,” Athos replied, “We'll have to wait until he wakes. I cannot think of any reason for such torture. Or anyone who would order it. This is beyond the doing of a cuckold, and Rochefort is dead.” 

“Why him?”

Yes, why him, Athos wondered. Had Aramis been an incidental victim to some madmen or had he been picked specifically? But why? Resentful Red Guards? Something from his past? But these men obviously were _Flamands_ , what had Aramis to do with them? He looked down at the marksman's bruised face and softly stroked a curl of hair back from the sweaty, feverish face.

Both men fell quiet again, silently musing over the questions of what and why this had happened to their brother. With the changing of towels and feeding the injured man water and medicine, the hours ticked away.

Finally, Athos submitted to Porthos’ continued glaring at him and subtle remarks that it didn't require both of them to keep watch and that Athos was on the brink of looking like a walking corpse. The comte walked over to the other bed to lie down beside d’Artagnan, but only after leaving instructions to wake either d’Artagnan or himself in a couple of hours to relieve the bigger man from his watch, even though he knew the probability of Porthos doing so was about nil. 

D’Artagnan came round with the feeling of something warm pressed against his back and needed a second or two to remembered where he was. He lifted his head cautiously to look around the room, noticing Porthos beside Aramis’ bed and, with another twist of the head, their sleeping captain wedged in the bed beside him. The Gascon carefully untangled himself from the blanket, avoiding disturbing Athos, and padded over to Porthos.

“I’ll take over, you need rest as well. Go before Athos realizes he’s alone in the bed and wakes up.”

Porthos opened his mouth to protest, but was overwhelmed in that instant by the tiredness and exhaustion and knew he was fighting a losing battle with the young man. He nodded. “Here. Continue with the cold water as often as necessary. Wake me, if you need help.” He rose to let d’Artagnan sit down and shuffled over to the bed where Athos now occupied more than half of it due to movement in his sleep. Nonetheless, Porthos managed to squeeze himself in beside his captain and was asleep even before d’Artagnan changed a cloth for the first time.

Taking his instructions very seriously, d'Artagnan rewet the cool cloth Porthos had handed him, dunked it in the basin of water and carefully draped it over the hot forehead.

He changed the damp towels on the left side, working his way around one of the knife slashes, when Aramis began to toss and turn as though trying to escape the simple ministrations. Alarmed, d'Artagnan glanced over his shoulder, wondering if he should wake one of the Musketeers. 

His patient moaned and then began to mutter under his breath in a mix of languages d'Artagnan could not distinguish. 

Porthos sat bolt right up in bed, glanced toward d'Artagnan and Aramis and was up and across the width of the room in three longs strides. "Move," he commanded, kneeing d'Artagnan to move quickly. The tossing and turning had escalated to thrashing. "He'll pull out all those stitches I just put in 'em!" 

Athos sat up too. "What's wrong?"

"He may be comin' around, I dunno." Porthos sat himself down so he could ease the unconscious man up against his chest and wrap his long, powerful arms around his friend. "He's burnin' up though. Maybe the fever's makin' 'em crazy." 

Despite Porthos' careful tending through the rest of the night, by morning Aramis was no better and had, in fact, reopened some of the wounds on his chest. And he remained unconscious. 

Athos was helping change the bloody bandages when a knock sounded on the door. Bertrande entered without waiting for an invitation.

She put her big basket on the table and came over to the bed, frowning. “His condition hasn't improved?”

“No,” Athos answered, “I think the fever is higher than before.”

Betrande felt Aramis' damp, hot skin and then checked his wounds. The shoulders seemed to have regressed and looked less swollen and most of the cuts displayed less signs of infection. The gunshot wound was infection-free as well and the broken hand and broken ribs showed no signs of dislocation.

“Monsieur--, Porthos it is, right? I think you can close the cuts now, they seem infection-free and dry,” the herb-wife stated, adding, as she turned to Athos, “and you can apply more ointment to the wounds. When you are finished and your friend has sewn up the cuts, you can re-wrap everything. And rub in some more of the salve on the shoulder blades and shoulders. They look good but are still swollen. I'll brew something else for the fever and you should change the towels more often. Keep them as cold as possible.”

She busied herself again with her bottles and sachets while the Musketeers carried out the tasks she had assigned them. Finished with mixing various herbs, liquids and ingredients she came over to the bed, examining Porthos' fine stitches and the wounds Athos had covered with salve. When everything was bandaged again, she handed the concoction to Athos and instructed him to give it every half hour, helping to get the first sips into Aramis. Then she packed her things together and came over to the bed once more, looking Aramis up and down again. When her eyes fell on Athos' crestfallen face, she stroked his cheek gently, the same way she had done the day before with Aramis.

Athos looked up in surprise

“Don't fret. He is young and he is strong. I found that soldiers in the service of kings are always a little sturdier and more invincible than others. Soldiers are designated to die on battlefields for their kings, not in bed.”

Athos, embarrassed at having been caught worrying over a fellow Musketeer more than a grown man probably should, as well as by the gentle, comforting gesture from the woman, drew back. The last time someone had done so had been his mother, and it was longer ago than he could remember. But it soothed his mind and, thinking about her words, he had to admit they bore some truth. Aramis in particular, had risen out of situation after situation where any other would have been doomed to die. Savoy had been only one of many such situations.

“ _Je vous remercie beaucoup,_ Madame.” Athos answered, inclining his head slightly, meaning it from the bottom of his heart.

“I'll come back in the evening. Send for me if his condition worsens.”

The repetitious tasks of trying to cool down Aramis' hot body and getting enough concoction and water into him occupied the men throughout the day. Most of the time Aramis lay still as if in deep slumber, only his labored breathing assured the Musketeers that he was still alive. When the sun set late in the afternoon, Aramis' behavior shifted and the marksman grew more restless.

D'Artagnan put a fresh cold cloth on Aramis brow just as he started to twist his head from side to side, causing the cloth to slip down immediately. The young man tried to sooth his friend, putting a hand calmingly on his forehead, and with a touch of surprise d'Artagnan realized that it was not hot anymore, barely warmer than the Gascon's hand. “Athos!” he hollered.

Alarmed by the shout, the older man hastened to his protégé's side, face strained with anxiety.

“He has cooled down!”

Athos blinked at his young companion as if not comprehending what he had just heard, but then the older man stirred from his stupor and removed the towels covering Aramis' legs. They felt almost cool to his touch. Athos yanked more towels from Aramis' body, touched the arms, the chest, the forehead. Though it still felt warm – and _yes_ , warm was much better than dead cold, Athos' mind whispered to him – he knew immediately the fever had broken.

Porthos, who had gone to fetch fresh water, entered the room, seeing Athos frantically touching Aramis' body, d'Artagnan beside their captain with wide eyes and an inscrutable look on his face. The bucket the big man carried clattered to the floor, sloshing water everywhere. In three long strides he was beside the bed. “What is it?” he asked, voice threatening to fail.

Athos looked to Porthos with a slight smile on his face. “The fever has broken.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gascon's mien changed until eventually it bore the beaming smile the young man usually displayed. A sight his companions had missed for far too long over the last couple of weeks.

Aramis came around, slowly, his mind climbing back to consciousness, meandering between sleep and awareness for a while, his body and spirit lulled by the warmth surrounding him. His first cognition was lying on soft ground, comfortably cosy; it felt good. Conversation in hushed voices drifted by his ears, voices he knew he was familiar with. Athos. Porthos. A wave of relief ran through him like a slight tremor. Everything was good. He was safe. 

Safe from what? Where?

The memory returned like a punch to the gut, colorful pictures, grey images, blurred scenes, drifting by his mind's eye. His captivity, the torture, the pain. A turmoil of emotions gripped his heart, a dull ache making itself known inside his body, though not as fierce and burning as he remembered it. More memories surfaced, the attack on the camp while two of his captors had been away. Being shot in the leg during the melee from a ricochet, waking from unconsciousness to an abandoned camp, dead bodies scattered everywhere. With a last ounce of energy-sapping determination, born of a soldier's iron will and duty, he had dragged himself away from the camp and kept walking and stumbling until he couldn't go on anymore, collapsing in the middle of nowhere. There, propped up against a tree, he had awaited death. Where was he now? How? Why were Porthos and Athos with him? 

The voices became clearer, the haze in his head settled, intensifying the feeling of safety. His Musketeer brothers were with him, wherever he was now. With a deep, strengthening breath and a slight fluttering of his lids, Aramis opened his eyes. His gaze fell on Porthos, perched at the end of the bed, and a glance to his left revealed Athos, sitting on a stool beside the bed.

“You with us again?” Porthos asked gently, his whole, friendly, loveable, dearly missed face one big smile. 

“You,” Aramis grated, the one word making him cough. His head was lifted by a hand and a cup was placed at his lips, so he could drink greedily of the cool liquid. Too soon Athos took the cup away, but it had been enough to sooth his throat for now. “You,” he tried again, adding a pointed stare, “are conversing way too loudly to let an injured man recover properly.”

“Said man would not be injured in the first place if he could fend for himself,” Athos stated in a flat voice, “and had not compelled his brothers to put themselves to some bother on his account.” The older man raised a brow, looking Aramis in the eyes. Despite the insinuation, Athos' eyes spoke of the deep gratitude he felt seeing the marksman awake and alive. 

“Oh well, I was prepared to enter paradise, enjoy eternal heavenly joy, angels and all, till kingdom come and what not,” Aramis croaked out, “but you two don't even remotely pass as such. Too much facial hair.” Aramis coughed again and felt every ache he had successfully suppressed until now. He would have waved his hand, at least vaguely, in the direction of Athos' bearded face, but the marksman's limbs suddenly felt like they weighed tons and even speaking was exhausting. Thankfully, his friends got the point. 

“Yeah, I bet you were,” Porthos grinned. “Must be a real disappointment, 'specially if it's Athos' face you have to look at first of all.” The big man guffawed while Athos pointedly raised another eyebrow.

Aramis' eyes then caught sight of d'Artagnan, leaning on the wall in the corner, hands clamped beneath his armpits, watching the scene before him. Aramis took in the way the Gascon had his upper lip drawn in, the tenseness of his shoulders and the shaken look. The young man's appearance spoke of all the worries, fears and sorrow Aramis had caused his friends, but the other two were better at hiding. Even after almost three years of experiencing the ups and downs, battles and bad times, joy and _joie de vivre_ together, d'Artagnan still could not grasp the soothing relief and calming effect of their bantering in such situations. He still wore his heart on his sleeve, his emotions still on display for everyone as clearly as the day he had first set foot in Paris. 

Porthos, who had followed the line of Aramis' gaze, knew exactly the course of his injured friend's thoughts. “Yeah, the puppy was deeply worried. Has yet to learn that Musketeers are made of a sterner stuff than the rest. Thought this time you'd left without saying good-bye,” Porthos chattered teasingly in a gentle voice, smoothing the edges of the truth behind his words. 

“Come here, d'Artagnan,” Aramis rasped. 

D'Artagnan hesitated a moment before shuffling over to the bed. 

“I'm glad to see you, brother,” Aramis said softly, the charming smile accompanying his words looking oddly strange on the battered face. His eyes, however, sparkled as always and spoke of the absolute truth these words held, conveying so much more than the simple statement it might be to anyone else outside their brotherhood. 

The Gascon's mien changed until eventually it bore the beaming smile the young man usually displayed. A sight his companions had missed for far too long over the last couple of weeks.

“You look awful,” d'Artagnan said mischievously, grasping Aramis' arm to squeeze it lightly. However, the young man's smile dropped when he saw the expression on Aramis' face.

The marksman squinted his eyes assessingly, searching the Gascon's face. 

“What?” d'Artagnan demanded, looking enquiringly from Athos to Porthos for a hint of what might have befallen their injured friend, or if he himself had done something wrong.

“Your face, d'Artagnan,” Aramis croaked with horror in his voice, “what have you done to it?”

D'Artagnan groaned and rolled his eyes, not believing that _this_ was one of the first things he heard from his beaten and tortured friend. Porthos' bellowing laughter filled the room and even Athos displayed an amused mien.

“Oh, you can keep quiet,” d'Artagnan hissed towards Porthos and addressed Aramis again, savoring every single word while speaking, “and if I were you, I would be worrying about who sewed up my wounds rather than a scratch on 'the puppy's' face.” The young man's mien turned into a contented grin when he saw the look of real horror gracing the marksman's face now, while Porthos' laughter increased in volume. 

“Please don't tell me you let Athos do the sewing!” Aramis whined, “His work is worse than a butcher's!” Letting his head fall back on the pillow histrionically, he closed his eyes in genuine dismay. 

Athos, unmoved by the marksman's theatrical intermezzo, simply stared at Aramis, the corners of the comte's mouth twitching in a suspicious way. 

D'Artagnan smirked and Porthos finally relieved the wounded man of his sorrows. “Nah, Athos had no valet at hand to pass him needle and thread, so it was me who had to do the job. I tried my best, though I have to admit nothing compares to your delicate, fine needlework.” Seeing Aramis opening his eyes and turning his gaze towards the bigger man, breathing a sigh of relief, Porthos added, “But it's not essential it looks nice, eh? As long as it stops the blood from flowin' and holds the wound together, it's sufficient for me.” Porthos grinned from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

It took a moment, but then a smile crawled over Aramis face as well, lightening up even the darkest bruises. “Thank you,” he rasped, knowing that the men around his bed understood that it was not caring for his wounds he referred to, but saving his life. “And now I'd really like to hear why you are even here. Wherever 'here' is.”

“After you, my friend” Athos said in a low voice, face serious again. “What happened?”

So Aramis told them. 

He reported his capture and why he had been picked in the first place. He broached his captivity and the torture, though only in sparse words and very briefly. In great detail he described what he had learned about the assassination plans, what he had been able to overhear and his insight into his captors' plans. While he spoke, a solemn mood settled over the inhabitants of the room.

“Then,” Aramis hesitated for a moment, “yesterday?” He had no idea how long he had been unconscious or what day was today. “Anyway, after midday suddenly there was shouting and shooting and people stormed into the encampment, though I'm not sure what of it was real and what was hallucination. I was barely able to think straight at the time, most of it a blurred haze. Wouldn't have been the first time I saw people who where not really there. Next thing I remember I woke up with a gunshot wound in my leg to a completely quiet forest, somehow managed to get on my feet and stumbled away from the camp without looking back.” Aramis glanced to his friends before he finished his report quietly. “The rest you know.” 

“Do you know who they were, did they mention names?” Athos asked, picking one of the more pressing questions that swamped his mind.

“No. When they spoke Flemish or whatever it was, I didn't understand a word, nor was I able to pick out a name. When the leader and the Spaniard conversed with each other in Spanish they never used names, not for themselves and not for the instigators in Madrid. But Madrid they mentioned, so it's quite obvious who's behind this, don't you think?”

“We are positive that at least one of them, a man named Gaston, fitting your description of the main torturer and leader, is in the pay of a Flemish nobleman, _Duc de Ryselle_. Most likely all of them were. That would also match with what you said about what has been promised to whomever is behind this, in return for committing regicide. Someone like the duke would gain much from Flanders' independence,” Athos reflected. 

Aramis looked up surprised. “They are in the pay of de Ryselle? Isn't he at the court in Paris? I presumed they were acting by direct order of Spain.” The marksman's eyes grew distant, recalling his time in the hands of his captors. “Gaston,” he murmured, thoughts obviously back with the man who had ordered all the inhuman things Aramis had had to suffer. With a slight tremor running through his body he shook off the thoughts of his captivity. “Some things add up now,” Aramis voiced, looking from one Musketeer to the other. “That man you say is called Gaston and one of the others disappeared every forth or fifth day, each time giving me a break for roughly two days.” Another shiver seized the injured man's body, barely visible, but his friends noticed it nonetheless, though none of them let show a sign of cognition. “I always wondered where they went, for it wouldn't have been enough time to ride to Spain and back to report to their master inside two days.”

Athos' mind started working while listening to Aramis. “So, they periodically reported to the duke then. From here, you can make the ride to Paris and back within two days and would still have enough time to give a report, stock up provisions and even get a short nap. The duke must already have his men in Paris, ready to strike once his henchman delivers the desired information.”

“That would explain where Gaston and the other one is right now,” Porthos stated, addressing Aramis a second later. “Did two of them leave before the ambush? Gaston and another? We found only two of your captors at the encampment.”

Aramis was visibly having problems following the conversation, surprise and confusion flickering across his mien. “What do you mean you found two? Where did –“ Aramis interrupted himself before he continued, shoving his questions aside for the moment, “Yes, they left in the morning. When the camp was attacked there was only the Spaniard and another with me. I'm sure the leader and the other one rode away again for the usual two days.” Aramis' mind had not yet fully registered that the leader's name, who had only been the redoubtable foe to him for weeks, was Gaston.

“Then they are just about to find out that Aramis is gone.” Athos threw a quick glance to the window, watching the last streaks of dark orange paint the western sky. 

“Depends what they decide to do then. If they search for him, then they have to wait until sunrise. Or return to Paris.” Porthos stated, scratching his beard.

“I'd like to see their faces when they find bodies piled up at the camp and Aramis gone,” d'Artagnan added. “They won't know if Aramis fled or was taken hostage by others. Or rescued.”

“First of all they'll have to check who is among the dead.” Porthos grinned, thinking about the nasty task the men would have to cope with. “Will cost them time before they realize Aramis is gone. In the dark they won't be able to do much.” 

“I daresay they wait until morning to follow possible tracks. There certainly are enough tracks through the camp by now,” d'Artagnan remarked waspishly. “I don't think they'll give up on him so easily.”

“Or they have to return to Paris immediately.” Porthos shrugged his shoulders. “We don't know anything about their orders.” 

The Musketeers' reflections swept across Aramis at a rate that made it almost impossible for him to follow their stream of thoughts or understand what they talked about. He turned his attention to Athos, intending to demand a full report of what the others knew and he seemed to lack, but before he could voice his question Athos approached him.

“Are you positive that you didn't pick up a name? Any reference? It would make things easier if we had a name to make allegations against.” 

Aramis shook his head. “I never heard them mention names. _Nom d'une pipe!_ Maybe they did and I didn't pay attention.” _Or wasn't in the state to grasp them_ , Aramis thought ashamedly. Frankly, he had not cared about names, knowing he would never get the chance to tell anyone about names or the origin of his captors or the instigator behind the plot. He had not reckoned to survive this.

“Never mind! The plot is clear enough. Tréville needs to know of this immediately.” Athos eyed Aramis. He knew their friend was in no state to make the trip back to Paris, not today and not tomorrow and very probably also not the day after tomorrow. 

“We have to be back by tomorrow anyway,” d'Artagnan tossed in, “I am not particularly keen on being declared a deserter.” He grinned sheepishly upon seeing the look of surprise on Aramis' face.

“What?” Aramis asked, “What do you mean?”

Porthos shouldered the task of telling their friend, starting with the decision to retrieve him from the monastery and the reasons for it in the first place, namely war with Spain. The bad feeling when they hadn't found him in Douai and had to return to Paris without him. The backing and leniency Tréville had granted them, their desperate search through the provinces of Picardy, Artois and Flanders, up to the moment when they had found the lifeless body in the woods. 

When towards the end Porthos' voice became a little shaky and strained, Athos took over and finished the story. “And all this means we have to be back in Paris by tomorrow evening if we want to remain honorable citizens of France.” The way Athos pronounced the words sounded very much like he couldn't care less whether or not he remained honorable. Or a citizen of France. Looking over to Porthos, he proceeded, “We have to decide now what we are going to do, because I'm sure that Porthos is not willing to return without you, and you,” he pointed to Aramis, “are definitely not in a state to mount a horse yet.” 

The men eyed each other, well aware of the predicament they found themselves in currently. None of them wanted to break the word they had given Tréville, but none of them were willing to leave without Aramis either. 

“Messieurs,” Aramis announced into the awkward silence of the room, “I need to use the chamber pot. Would someone be so kind and argh-- !” the marksman squawked. Tossing away the sheet he suddenly realized he was completely naked underneath. 

“My apologies, mon ami, but we had to strip you down to be able to patch you up.” Athos rose from his seat to help Aramis out of the bed. “And I hope you will forgive us for throwing your clothes into the fire. They were beyond repair.” 

Aramis was deeply grateful Athos put what was plain fact into such kind words; his clothes had reeked ad nauseam, literally, and not only of blood, dirt and sweat. Aramis froze in place the moment his eyes finally took in all the bandages wrapped around his body and the numerous wounds and bruises that covered his skin. Though he felt every painful cut, blow and injury that had been inflicted on him, he had repressed it the entire time, how it all must look beneath his clothing. It was an awful lot, and he had yet to see what lay beneath the bandages. A hand on his shoulder startled him back to the presence of his brothers, the firm grasp grounding him, helping him breathe easier again. 

“Come,” Athos said in an understanding voice, “I'll help you.” 

With Athos' help Aramis managed to sit up on the bedside and that was about all he was able to accomplish. He sat there, breathing harshly, pearls of sweat forming on his forehead, and shot his friends an apologetic glance. 

D'Artagnan brought over the chamber pot while Porthos rummaged in his saddlebag. Athos pointedly tried to not watch his brother relieve himself but discreetly shoved the pot underneath the bed once Aramis had finished. 

Porthos appeared in front of the marksman with a shirt in his hands. “Here, let me help you with this. That way you will not feel so naked,” Porthos chuckled, holding out the piece of clothing to Aramis.

Aramis smiled thankfully but shook his head. “I really would like to wash away the dirt first.” And the blood and grime and sweat and _helplessness_ he silently added, realizing belatedly that his friends had already done so while he had been unconscious. Even his hair felt less stiff and dirty than it had before. His eyes sought Porthos' gaze. 

The big man smiled mildly and once again waggled the shirt. Without waiting for an answer he pulled the shirt over Aramis' head and helped him get his arms into it. 

The garment, obviously Porthos' spare shirt, was much too big for Aramis, but it felt like the fanciest shirt he had ever worn. 

Athos fluffed up the pillows while Porthos handled their injured comrade. 

If Aramis hadn't been so worn out simply from sitting on the bedside and lifting his arms to get dressed, he would have teased the comte. Would have commented that he'd never dreamed of seeing their comrade fulfilling such a task. Instead, he allowed himself to be guided back down on the pillows and the sheets pulled over him again by Porthos. Aramis was about to tell d'Artagnan, hovering beside the bed with a bowl in his hand, to stop shuffling and get into him whatever concoction the young man had there, when someone rapped at the door. 

“In,” Athos called without looking away from Aramis, apparently engaged in studying something in the marksman's face.

The door opened and Aramis tried to look past the Musketeers, inconveniently all standing around his bed now. His eyes widened slightly in surprise when he heard a female voice. 

“Good evening, Messieurs. I hope seeing you all around the patient's bed is a good sign.” Bertrande entered the room and came over to the bed. Porthos and d'Artagnan moved to the side to give the herb-wife an unobstructed view and the opportunity to behold the patient lying in front of her. A smile appeared on her face. “It's good to see you awake, Monsieur. You caused your friends a great deal of sorrow.” She reached out and touched Aramis forehead. “Good,” she murmured, turning to walk over to the table where she put down the basket.

Aramis looked questioningly from one of his friends to the other, but they only smirked. 

The woman came back to the bed. “I'm Bertrande, the local healer. Your comrades asked me for help and I'm very glad to see you awake. I didn't want to add to their worries, but I really wasn't sure if you would find your way back,” she said gently, smiling warmly down at Aramis. “Sometimes even my herbs and concoctions are not sufficient.”

D'Artagnan, standing behind the herb-wife and in Aramis' line of sight, paled visibly, eyes widening in shock. On the Gascon's face Aramis could read once more how close to death he had been and how hard a time it must have been for them, tending and waiting for him to wake up. A quick glance towards Porthos' serious face confirmed that perception.

“Thank you madam, I am grateful for your help and treatment.” Aramis wanted to add more, ask about the pain reliever she had brewed and seemed to work wonders, and what herbs and ingredients she worked with, but was interrupted by the woman.

“Now, young man, let me inspect your wounds. I hope the infection has receded and you have not torn any stitches.” When Aramis made no move to comply but stared uncertainly at the woman, she added, “I have already seen you in all your glory, no reason to be shy now.”

Porthos' chuckle rose to a bellowing laugh and d'Artagnan's grin was about the biggest Aramis had ever seen on the face of the Gascon, and that alone spoke for itself. 

“Athos,” Aramis whimpered, “please!” 

Athos, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement, took pity on the marksman. “ _Madame_ , I think our friend has suffered enough. If you will give us a moment of privacy so that he can put on...” Athos just now remembered that they had burned every single piece of clothing Aramis had worn, excluding the boots, “err, something on his lower parts. I'm sure he will gladly be at your disposal then.”

“I will ask the innkeeper for boiled water,” the herb-wife muttered, turning to leave the room.

Aramis let his head fall back, sighing audibly, and closed his eyes, only to open them again seconds later, squinting. “What did she mean when she said she has already seen me in all my glory?”

“Nothing,” d'Artagnan answered hurriedly, “we would never, have not, that is –” Breaking off, he turned and grabbed the bucket, still half full of water. “I'll bring fresh water!” He was out of the door before anyone could react. 

Aramis looked to Porthos, who only shrugged. “I've no spare breeches or braies. Sorry. Guess I'll ask the innkeeper if he can supply something.” Again the door banged shut after another Musketeer had fled the room in a hurry.

The marksman now turned his gaze towards Athos. The latter had at least the decency to remain where he was. They eyed each other until Aramis finally huffed, “Very well, give me some cloth or some such, I'll just cover my private parts and submit to the examination. But I'm not done with this topic,” he stressed, squinting his eyes again to underline his words.

Athos inclined his head in acceptance and understanding and went to search for a fresh piece of cloth.

The herb-wife prodded and squeezed at almost every part of Aramis' body, checked his temperature, wrapped and re-wrapped the wounds, put salves and ointments on the cuts, bruises and scars and made sure that everything had healed to her perfect satisfaction. All the while she showered questions on the injured man. “Does this hurt? How about if I push here? How does your head feel? Is your vision blurred? Was there blood in your, errm-- , when you relieved yourself?” and so on.

Aramis answered every question, most of them with a simple yes or no or a suppressed groan. After the inspection, Aramis felt so worn down that he was hardly able to keep his eyes open any longer. Athos urged him to drink some of the broth Porthos had brought back from the innkeeper, and when he had finished with it the herb-wife held out two cups to him. Willingly, Aramis gulped down the pain reliever and something for the infection, letting himself drift off to sleep afterwards.

The concoction worked _comme il faut_ and as soon as Aramis was breathing regularly, evidently already sound asleep, Athos turned his attention to Bertrande, asking for her opinion. “When do you think he will be fit to ride? We need to go back to Paris as soon as possible.”

The herb-wife looked to the sleeping man. “As far as I can see all is healing well. The fever is almost gone and there are no new infections. I would say a man with wounds like his and with what he obviously has gone through should stay in bed for at least another five or six days. More, if it's possible.” She glanced down again at Aramis. “But with him being a Musketeer, I guess that is not an option, right?”

Athos didn't correct her in regard to Aramis' current profession. As far as he was concerned, his friend _was_ a Musketeer and would always be, no need to complicate things. Athos shrugged his shoulders elusively, but was spared from answering when the old woman spoke again.

“He will still be weak for a while and his wounds and broken bones need time to heal. But I guess if you bandage the ribs tight and make sure that his leg and hand are not strained too much, and with enough pain reliever and time to recover afterwards, he should be able to make the ride to Paris in three days time. Not on his own horse, mind you, but with help it should work.” 

“And tomorrow?” Athos asked.

Bertrande sighed. “This question you should ask him. If he is willing to do so, it certainly won't kill him, but it won't be a pleasure either. But I guess someone who survives such torture will easily survive a little more suffering, if need be.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis studied the other man's face intently. “Athos, you know the reasons I had to go. War with Spain doesn't change anything. I can't ---,” he broke off, looked away. “I wished I could,” he murmured, “I really do.”

The morning sun was filtering through the windows when Aramis woke, and it took him a moment to find his bearings. He couldn't remember having seen the herb-wife leave, nor had he any memory of what had happened during the evening or night. Obviously he had slept for long hours, and he felt much better compared to when he had first woken the day before. He turned his head and saw d'Artagnan sleeping in the other bed, Porthos behind the young man, snoring softly. Rolling his head to the other side he found Athos, slumped on a stool with his feet propped up on the bed, watching him, the comte's eyes barely visible, hidden in the shadow beneath the brim of his hat.

“Morning,” Athos greeted, “How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Good. Do you think you are fit to ride today?”

Straight to the point, Aramis thought amusedly, pondering the question for a moment. “Yes, I guess I can if I must.” 

“That's good to hear. If we leave before noon we should be back in Paris by evening.”

Aramis wondered for a moment if he should draw attention to the fact that he had been on his way to Douai before all this happened. That his comrades should take him to the monastery for recovery and return to Paris without him, but he couldn't bring himself to say so. The mere thought of the Musketeer Garrison and having his friends around him was too alluring to give voice to the thought. Douai wouldn't run away, after all.

“That's not an option, Aramis.”

“What?” Aramis asked surprised, looking to Athos. He hadn't the slightest clue what the comte referred to.

“Douai,” Athos replied simply. “You're going back to Paris with us, at least for as long as it takes for you to recover.” After a short pause Athos added, softer, voice dropped down half an octave, “That's non-negotiable.”

Aramis studied the other man's face intently. “Athos, you know the reasons I had to go. War with Spain doesn't change anything. I can't ---,” he broke off, looked away. “I wished I could,” he murmured, “I really do.” 

“I know. Recover and then we'll talk about this.” The warm tone of Athos' voice conveyed much more than the few words spoken. 

Aramis looked up again and both men's eyes locked for a moment, then the marksman's eyes drifted to where his hands lay on the blanket, fumbling with some loose threads. “They had me overwhelmed within a minute or so, I didn't even unsheathe my rapier.” A pause, then, even less audibly, “I can't believe how inattentive I was!”

“You had no reason to reckon there might be difficulties, it could have happened to anyone.”

Aramis raised his head again, displaying a pained expression. In a strained voice he uttered, “I'm a battle seasoned soldier of many years' standing, something like this _should_ not have happened to me!”

Athos dragged his chair nearer to the bed as silently as possible, darting a quick glance towards where d'Artagnan and Porthos slept in the other bed, making sure he hadn't disturbed them. He doffed his hat, throwing it carelessly onto the bed and leaned closer to Aramis. “Do you remember what happened to Cornet? And he was one of the best soldiers in the regiment. This could have happened to anyone!”

Aramis' eyes wandered over the blanket, avoiding Athos' gaze. “I was so close to telling them what they wanted to know. They nearly had me broken,” the marksman whispered, “I was damn close to betraying my king, Athos!”

Though Athos heard the distress in the other's voice, he was glad to hear that Aramis obviously still thought in soldier's terms, that he still called Louis his sovereign, that he still felt himself bound to his oath to protect king and country at any price. _Of course he would._ Athos put his hand on Aramis' arm, careful of the injuries, but before he could speak the marksman beat him to it.

“I thought of Rochefort. God, I don't know---, if the encampment had not been ambushed by those vagrants, I don't know how much longer I could have endured it. I was so near....” Trailing off, he raised his head, hardly daring to face Athos.

Lightly squeezing Aramis' arm, Athos replied in a steady voice, “None of us would have blamed you if you had. You were no longer bound by an oath. But you did not. You bore it without breaking, and you survived. That's all that counts, _mon ami.”_ The corners of Athos' mouth curved into something like a smile, eyes speaking of a deep understanding. “Though I'm not sure if the only difference between Rochefort and you wasn't just his lack of your manly-romantic charisma.”

Aramis exhaled a wet laugh, briefly closing his eyes. He felt his heart cramp for a moment with the overwhelming joy of being in the company of his brothers again.

“Who says Aramis has charisma?” Porthos grumbled, coming up on his elbows to look bleary-eyed over at the other men, simultaneously poking d'Artagnan in the ribs which caused the young man to startle awake with a yelp. “Morning,” Porthos addressed the Gascon, grinning innocently.

Athos rose and put the stool back in the corner. “I'll ask the innkeeper to bring up something for breakfast and see to our horses.” With a last glance towards the marksman he snatched his hat from the blanket and put it on. “Then we'll see to your wounds.” 

D'Artagnan, already pulling up his boots and trying to straighten his hair at the same time, looked over to Athos. “I'll come down with you and fetch fresh water.” He hurried after the captain, grabbing the bucket on his way out.

Porthos busied himself with the chamber pot and afterwards fumbled around with his breeches for a moment before walking over to Aramis. The bed dipped under the weight of the big man as Porthos sat down, grinning broadly. “You feel better?”

“A lot,” Aramis replied, returning the grin with a smile that reached his eyes the moment his mouth corners turned upwards.

Porthos nodded. “Good to hear.” He reached out his arm towards Aramis, his clenched hand holding something, palm facing downwards. “Here,” he said in a soft voice. 

Aramis searched his friend's face, surprised by the serious tone the other one suddenly adopted. “What?” he asked, stretching out his hand nonetheless. Something cool drop down into his palm, followed by the warm skin of Porthos' hand wrapping itself around the marksman's fingers. 

Porthos smiled and withdrew his hand, revealing what now lay in Aramis' palm. It was the queen's gift to her gallant Musketeer.

Aramis' eyes widened, almost not believing what they saw. “Porthos,” he breathed, “how?” The marksman's head snapped up. “Where did you find it?”

“At the encampment. If it hadn't been for the cross, we might have never found you. This truly is your lucky charm.” Porthos mien grew even more serious. “I don't know if it's God or the queen who holds a protecting hand over you,” the big man swallowed, “but make sure you always wear it.”

*******

Tréville had spent the morning at the palace and the afternoon at the garrison, working with Bauer on the necessary paperwork. He was expected back at the Louvre in the evening to meet with Cardinal Marzarin, the King's Proctor Caderousse, and the Comte de Villefort and now, grabbing his hat and rapier on his way out of the captain's office, made his way down to the courtyard. From the stairways he shouted to Veyrenc to bring his horse, Tréville's eyes drawn to the archway while he hurried down the last steps.

Today was the last day of leave he had granted Athos and his companions and yet they were neither back nor had he received a message. He had been considering all day what he should do if they had not arrived by the end of the day. He was bound to his word he had given the king, but, as chance would have it, he would probably spend the rest of the day at the palace in meetings. If it was too late for him to return to the garrison this evening, it would give his men at least another six or eight hours time to return and he was willing to grant them the extra hours until morning muster. If they were not back by then, he would inform the king and they'd be declared deserters. He had no other choice. 

The moment Tréville mounted he heard hooves clattering under the archway, looking up in time to see Athos and d'Artagnan ride through the gate. A third horse followed, half-hidden by the two leading the way. Three horses, not four. They had not succeeded. Sadness and relief struggled for supremacy in Tréville's heart. Three instead of four Inseparables felt wrong, but he would not have to declare his finest soldiers deserters. When the third rider, Porthos, was revealed after a shift of position of those in front of him, Tréville realized that Porthos was not alone on the horse. In front of the big man sat a slumped figure, held firmly in place by the arms of the man behind him, and with a rush of adrenaline Tréville recognized Aramis. 

“We are reporting for duty, minister,” Athos announced. 

Tréville nodded in acceptance and with such a smile on his face, he was afraid he looked probably more lunatic than relieved. He dismounted and strode over to Porthos' horse. When he stepped up beside its two riders, Aramis lifted his head. 

“I hear it's minister now, captain,” the marksman croaked and smiled whimsically, “Congratulations.” 

“It's good to see you Aramis,” Tréville replied in a serious tone, “though I'm sorry to say that you look awful.” He helped Aramis down from the horse, handing him over to Athos and d'Artagnan who approached just in time to get a grip on their swaying friend. 

“I'm expected at the Louvre. I will check in later on you and there will be an explanation for this.” Tréville waved vaguely in the direction of Aramis face, turning to walk back to his horse, but was halted by Athos. 

“Minister, there's something you must hear first.”

Tréville stopped in his tracks and glanced back to the captain with an almost pained expression, guessing whatever came next was not going to be anything he wanted to hear. “What do you mean?”

“Aramis was captured and tortured for information about the Louvre. The way in, way out and such. There are plans to assassinate the king, and you won't be pleased to hear that it involves Spain. Again.” Athos declared. 

Tréville, stunned for a second, restarted his brain, quickly processed the implication of the words, and changed his plans, gesturing at Athos to start moving. “Alright, lead the way. Danglard,” he called over to one of the Musketeers sitting at the table in the yard, “ride to the Louvre and notify the cardinal that I will be late.” He followed the Inseparables on their way to the quarters. 

A short time later Aramis lay on a bed, his upper body propped up with pillows and his face twisted with pain. Porthos held out a cup of wine, mixed with some of the pain concoction the herb-wife had provided and Aramis grabbed it, gulping it down in one go. The others stood around the bed, Tréville eager to hear what Aramis had to tell.

“Well, _minister_ , I really would love to entertain you with a full travel report of my lovely journey to Douai,” Aramis said, his face contorting with pain again, his attempt at lifting the tense mood flying in the face of his mien, “but for obvious reasons I'll make it short. Athos can fill you in on the details later.”

After Aramis had finished a short version of the report he had given his friends the day before, Tréville started giving orders. “Athos, accompany me to the Louvre, the king must hear of this immediately, we must act on this threat at once. I can't believe Spain dares something like this again!” Turning to Aramis, his eyes lost their harshness for a moment. “Your suffering will not be for naught, Aramis. The king will hear of your commitment, I will see to that.” Nodding to the other Musketeers, Tréville hurried through the door and was gone, relying on the captain to follow him. 

“I'll be back,” Athos declared with a pointed stare at Aramis before he followed Tréville out of the room to head for the palace.

Porthos and d'Artagnan looked at each other for a moment, engaged in a silent conversation, then turned as one, targeting Aramis.

The marksman gulped. “What?” he asked, panic crawling up his face. 

Porthos grinned devilishly when he announced, “You should know what to expect. _Invalid.”_ He clapped his hands and let out a short, barking laugh upon seeing Aramis' grimace. Despite the serious injuries his brother had suffered - and Porthos would never make light of them - he was sure he was going to be magnificently entertained in the coming days. 

Aramis groaned. “D'Artagnan, help me! Just let me lie here and recover. I'm tired and need to sleep. Save me from this brute, I beg you!”

D'Artagnan just shook his head, grinning from ear to ear. “No way, brother.”

“Oh, don't worry, you will most certainly lie here for a long time, I'll personally see to it, believe me, _mon ami,”_ Porthos added. “And now off with your clothes, time to change your bandages.”

Aramis let his head fall back and groaned once more. “This is real torture, my friends.” But every single word spoke of the gratitude he felt to be blessed with friends like these.

Porthos and d'Artagnan knew this, but it didn't stop them from prodding, pushing and squeezing at every part of Aramis' body and urging him to drink various brews, concoctions and broths, all in the name of a quick recovery.

*******

After Tréville had finished with his report, silence reigned for a moment in the reception room. The king sat motionless on the dais, the queen at his side, Mazarin hovering to the right of the king. Earlier, Tréville had made sure to clear the room of any petitioners or other unwanted listeners, leaving only the queen's ladies-in-waiting and a handful of trustworthy courtiers.

“This is outrageous!” the king finally announced as he rose from his seat. “How dare Spain! Tréville, I demand your troops leave for the Spanish border _immediately!_ Drag Philipp's kingly backside from Madrid to Paris so I can spit in his face! Then I will have his head cut off and placed on a spike for all Paris to ogle! Who does he think he is!” Louis would have gone on with his bawling if the cardinal had not interrupted.

“Sire, as far as I understand it is not yet proven that King Philipp really is involved in this. We must find evidence before making such accusations.” _Not that it mattered,_ Mazarin thought, war had already been declared and with Rochefort and the spy master Vargas' confessions, proof was delivered that the Spanish king was not overly interested in the well-being of his brother-in-law or his sister. To put it mildly. But state business was a delicate thing to handle and could seldom be categorized in good and bad, right or wrong; alas, if only it were that simple! Unfortunately there were always diplomatic relations to consider.

“The cardinal is right, sire. It would only reap further diplomatic implications,” Tréville took up the same line as the cardinal, though he had no idea how anything could get worse at diplomatic level since there had already been a declaration of war. Yet, they had to try to keep the king from making further rash decisions. There had been enough of those recently. “Do you know the _Duc de Ryselle_ , sire?” asked Tréville.

“We do,” the king replied, switching back to majestic plural, “He is a pompous, snobbish, supercilious oaf whose French is so bad one can hardly understand. Throw him into the châtelet, Tréville! He shall rot there for his insolence until we have decided how to execute him appropriately. That at least we are allowed, cardinal, or not?”

“Sire, it's not wise to imprison foreign nobility without publicly pressing charges, it's not well-received amongst our allies. It wouldn't be wise to fall out with Flanders now.” Cardinal Mazarin tried to intervene once again. Though the news Tréville had brought were most alarming, it was necessary to remain level-headed, and he saw himself as just the right man for this. 

“We don't care about allies,” the king shouted, “as King of France we will execute whoever dares attempts on our life!” He half-turned towards the queen, “Including Philipp! We have never been anything other than forthcoming with the Spanish crown and in return are over and over again countered with deceit and aggression. Is this how Spain thank us for our courtesy?” Louis took a few deep breathes, speaking directly to the queen now, his voice restrained again. “I should have put him in his place years ago. Richelieu told me so again and again.”

The queen had blanched during Tréville's report about the torture but remained silent. Being confronted now with an angry Louis and new accusations against Spain, she fought for countenance.

“Sire,” Mazarin spoke again, “I would like to suggest something else. We'll keep an eye on the duke, at all times. I'm sure his henchmen will come to Paris sooner or later to seek him. From what we heard they are running out of time, they need to figure out a new approach, find someone else whom they can get information from. I am sure they will come to Paris once they realize their prisoner has escaped, the more so if they don't find him in the fôret d'Amont and must fear their plans are exposed .“ Mazarin turned to Tréville. “From what your Musketeer reported, two of them, including their leader, repeatedly were away for two days, most certainly to inform the duke here in Paris about their progress. When they returned to the abandoned camp and only found two of their dead accomplices, and no sign of the prisoner, they will search the forest before returning to Paris. This is our chance.” 

The cardinal started pacing before the dais. “As soon as these henchmen are in Paris and contact the duke, we must capture them and extract a confession from them. Once we have proof that the duke is involved, we can execute him de jure for high treason without diplomatic implications. Same applies for the Spanish king. We must have proof of any involvement before making further accusations. This way we can gain the upper hand on Spain, which is particularly advantageous should they be willing to negotiate one day.”

Inwardly, Tréville could only bow to such a sharp-wittedness and the ability to conceive complex plans in such a short time. 

All the men looked expectantly to the king who stared at them like a petulant child. A child who, unfortunately, had it in his hands to decide between death and devastation or sanity and reason. To the great relief of Tréville and Athos, it was the queen who spoke.

“I think what the cardinal suggests is a brilliant idea. The Musketeer will be able to identify these men once they are in durance and it will be revealed who is behind this plot.” Queen Anne had risen from her throne while speaking and now stepped to Louis' side, putting a calming hand on his arm. “Sire, it pains me to see how Spain treats France, an irreparable affront that cannot and will not be pardoned. But the cardinal is right. Proof needs to be found.”

Athos could only guess how hard it must be for the queen to speak of the land where she was born in such a a way, to realize one's own role in the game of power and influence. And yet she stood proud and strong at the side of the king, every bit the Queen of France, and nothing else. 

The king turned towards Tréville. “Your Musketeer, will he be able to identify them?”

Athos, who had remained silent until now, replied. “Yes, sire, without doubt.” 

“Your majesties will of course be guarded at all times. We will clear the court, no petitioners will be received and no members of nobility are allowed to be around you.” Tréville said. “We can't be sure who else is involved in this plot. Furthermore, you must cancel all public appearances until this is solved, sire.”

Mazarin took over from Tréville. “We can say that the queen is unwell and your majesty is too busy with war preparations.” 

The king looked his minister up and down, then over to Marzarin. “Very well, but this will be solved by the end of the week. If those henchmen have not turned up by then, de Ryselle will be executed.” Louis dismissed the men by walking by them without another word, chin raised, mien sulky. He left the room, shutting the door behind him with a bang.

The queen stepped down from the dais. “Tréville, please give our thanks to the Musketeer Aramis. His loyalty is most appreciated. What he has endured for his king will not be forgotten.” The queen unwittingly echoed Tréville's sentiment to Aramis. She turned and walked away regally, her ladies-in-waiting following. Straightening from his bow, Athos' eyes followed the queen and her ladies out of the room, while Tréville and Mazarin were already talking about the next necessary steps. Athos was sure that no one else had noticed the queen's tiny squint and that she, in return, had seen his fraction of a nod. Whether or not he liked it, he would pass on the message to Aramis.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tréville thought of the very few matters that would educe such an urgency that the First Minister of France would come seek him here instead of sending for him. The minister dared not ponder these reasons, all having to do with the political governance of France, or rather the lack of it due to the death of one of its members. He followed Athos outside, almost dreading what news awaited him there.

Most Musketeers in the courtyard halted whatever they were doing as soon as two Red Guards rode through the archway, the distrust and dislike those two regiments nursed towards each other as strong as ever. Only a few of the newer recruits were still oblivious to the abhorrence and could make no sense of the behavior of their fellow soldiers. When the figure of Cardinal Mazarin came into view, flanked by two more of his soldiers, Etienne hasted up the stairs to the captain's office. 

Athos was discussing plans with Tréville when someone rapped on the door and, without waiting for permission to enter, threw open the door, speaking before he was even inside the office.

“Captain, Minister, Cardinal Mazarin just rode into the garrison.”

Both captain and minister looked questioningly to Etienne, waiting for further explanations.

“What does he want?” Athos asked.

“I don't know, captain, I just thought to report it immediately.”

Athos rose from his seat and looked over to Tréville. It was more likely that the cardinal had come to meet Tréville, and not the commanding officer of the regiment, but both men were clueless what the cardinal would want here.

Tréville thought of the very few matters that would educe such an urgency that the First Minister of France would come seek him here instead of sending for him. The minister dared not ponder these reasons, all having to do with the political governance of France, or rather the lack of it due to the death of one of its members. He followed Athos outside, almost dreading what news awaited him there.

From the balcony they could see the cardinal dismounting, his Red Guards showing no intention of following suit.

“Bonjour, Eminence,” Tréville called down to the cardinal.

Mazarin, already on his way to the stairways, looked up. “Tréville, there you are! Caderousse is looking for you, something about the state coffers, or rather the emptiness of it.” He waved his hand. “I don't know exactly, he can talk for hours and one still has no clue what he means to say,” the cardinal muttered, continuing up the stairs.

Tréville and Athos moved down to the landing, still concerned and none the wiser why the First Minister of France had come to seek one of them here at the garrison.

“Eminence,” Athos greeted Mazarin with due deference, once the man was atop the stairs. “What brings you here?”

“Ah, captain.” Mazarin smiled at Athos. “I am here to see the Musketeer Aramis, I was told he is recuperating at the garrison.”

Stunned was not the right word to describe how Athos felt. What in the Lords name did Mazarin want from Aramis? Did he even _know_ Aramis? A quick glance to the minister confirmed that Tréville shared the same thought.

“Yes, your information is right, Aramis is here. However, I don’t see how he could be of any help to you?” Athos was wary of the purpose of the cardinal's visit, and it showed in his almost rude reply.

“It's more about what I can do for him. Would you show me to his quarters?” The new cardinal had the same talent Richelieu had to clothe his orders in benign questions.

Athos glanced to Tréville again and turned. “Follow me, please.” He led the cardinal to the room they had taken Aramis to, knocking once before opening the door.

Porthos looked up from where he sat beside Aramis' bed. Seeing Athos step into the room with Cardinal Mazarin on his heels, the big man hurried to rise, almost tripping over his own feet in the process.

Aramis, upper body propped up with pillows, tried to untangle his feet from the sheets so he could also rise, but was halted by Porthos' hand on his shoulder and a glare from the bigger man. The marksman sighed silently, letting himself fall back again.

“Good afternoon, messieurs. Forgive my intrusion, but I would like to speak with the Musketeer Aramis.” With an outstretched hand towards Aramis, Mazarin added, “Please, remain abed.”

Porthos glanced to Athos, the latter shrugging his shoulders, having no idea either what this was all about. 

“If you would leave us alone for a moment,” the cardinal interrupted the silent eyeing of the Musketeers.

Porthos was about to open his mouth and tell the cardinal that this was not going to happen but caught the minute shake of Aramis’ head. Porthos moved to the door, standing there with Athos for a moment longer, both men glaring alternately to the man in the bed and the one standing before it.

“We'll wait outside. If you need us, just holler,” Porthos said, receiving a tiny nod from the injured man in reponse to the encrypted message, one only his brothers were able to decipher.

The cardinal addressed Aramis once the door had closed. “How are you feeling, son?”

“It still hurts here and there, but nothing I have not experienced before.” That was a lie, but the cardinal needn't know. “I'm well, thank you.” Aramis eyed the First Minister warily, trying to figure out what the man really wanted from him. “And I'm not a Musketeer anymore, Eminence, despite staying here in the garrison for recovery. I resigned my commission.”

“So I was told. That is the reason why I am here. The king is loath to let go of such loyal soldiers the likes of you, especially in difficult times like these. He needs loyal men, now more than ever.”

Aramis didn't know what to think of this. He knew Tréville had told the king what had happened, and very probably the cardinal had been there as well. But he couldn't believe that someone like their king would go to such lengths as to send his First Minister after one of his soldiers. Be it to thank him for his service to the crown – unlikely for Louis – or to offer a re-commissioning – also unlikely for Louis. Especially given the terms the king and he had been on when Rochefort had made his accusations. Aramis wondered if Mazarin knew about that, too.

“I vowed to spend the rest of my life in the service of our Lord, Eminence. It's a vow I cannot break.” Aramis studied his hands lying in his lap. “In times of great need He has answered my prayers. In turn I promised to henceforth devote my life to Him.” He looked up to the cardinal, waiting for the man's reaction.

“I see. But don’t you think you could serve our Lord as a soldier as well, maybe even better than as a reclusive in a monastery? A man with your skills?” The cardinal had stepped to the window while talking, looking out now, hands clasped behind his back. “It must not always be a monk's life full of prayers to please the Lord. Not all of us in the service of God can live such a quiet life. God needs soldiers to fight for Him, fight against the heathens of this world, at the side of a Catholic king.”

The way Mazarin stood there, gazing into the distance, reminded Aramis very much of Richelieu, immediately awakening the same distrust he had had towards the former cardinal. Aramis thought for a moment about the words, but couldn’t see how a war declaration by His Most Christian Majesty against another king claiming the same title for himself, would please the Lord, or his own role in this. Certainly, for men like Richelieu or Mazarin, it meant nothing to twist the facts until it suited their intent and it was second nature to them to blind others with their skillful words. Such men had honed their skills to make others believe that every word they said was true, and mostly all for the highest glory of God.

“Eminence, I understand what you're suggesting and I would gladly march to war side by side with my brothers for king and country. That's what I'm good at, that's what I have done half my life. But I have sworn to renounce this worldly life. How can I be untrue to my word when God gave me what I had asked of Him? “

“My son, one cannot bargain with God. What He grants, He gives freely, and it is given because we are His children and He loves every single one. God expects nothing in return.” Mazarin paused, turning to see if Aramis understood the gift he was offering.

Aramis, however, stared at the cardinal. What the man had said scratched the surface of heresy. Was the cardinal trying to set him up? Trying to see how Aramis would respond to this? Why? Never before had he heard a man of the church, and one in as high a position as the cardinal's at that, speak of such things. Usually, the clergy tried to convince their sheep otherwise. When he became aware that he was still staring, Aramis dropped his gaze.

“If you offer your life to God, then it is not up to you to decide which path to take. It's God's decision. And His alone.” Mazarin obviously had not seen anything amiss in what he had said and now waited for a reaction.

“But how will I know what He wants from me, what path in life He wants me to take? How do I know?”

“Can't you see it? Do you not think He has already shown you?”

Aramis was confused. “No. If I were to stay here, how would that be different from my prior life? What penance would that be?”

Mazarin stepped back to the bedside, looking down sympathetically at the man in front of him, replying softly. “One would be inclined to believe that you have already atoned for your sins, whatever or however grave they were.” Mazarin made a vague gesture towards Aramis, including his whole battered appearance with it.

“This is nothing, cardinal. The duty of a soldier.” As soon as the words were spoken, Aramis bit his lip. There! He'd said it. How could it be his duty, if he was not?

Mazarin smiled. “Why do you want to throw away what is given to you, given to you by God, when you already know where your place is? Why do you think you are here, wounded and injured at the garrison, and not in the Abbey of Douai?”

Aramis looked up to the cardinal, squinting his eyes. It couldn't be that simple, could it? And yet, wasn't it what he had thought, lying there, beaten and in pain? _Had this_ been what his God asked of him? _Was_ it His will that he remained at the king's side? At his son's side? Who would protect the dauphin if his father was not there? Aramis realized the cardinal was speaking again and he had missed most of it.

“I beg your pardon, Eminence, what did you say?”

“I will tell the king that you are recovering well and are grateful for his majesty's offer of a re-commissioning. And that you will let him know of your decision as soon as you are able to foresee whether you will be fit again to fulfill your duty.”

“How will I know what God wants from me?” Aramis repeated. 

“Ask Him, my son, He will answer. Pray and talk to Him.” Mazarin walked to the door, but before he opened it, he addressed Aramis once more. “Whatever your decision is, Aramis, the king will accept it. “

“Cardinal,” Aramis interrupted hurriedly before the man could leave, “Did my brothers send you to speak with me?” He could not resist asking, for he could see no reason why Mazarin or the king himself might have any interest in him.

Mazarin looked genuinely surprised. “Your brothers? No. No, I came on behalf of his majesty. Both the king and the queen speak of you in high regard. It was the express request of their majesties that I carry their thanks and offer the commission.” Mazarin smiled and added, “It would be a sheer waste to see a soldier like you in a monk's habit. If I recall correctly, those were the exact words of the king. God bless you.” He opened the door and stepped out into the bright sunlight.

Mere seconds later Porthos entered the room, followed by Athos.

If he hadn't known better, Aramis would have sworn they had been standing right behind the door frame, ears glued to the door.

“What did he want?” Porthos asked, not yet fully over the threshold.

“Nothing important. To see how I am. Apparently the king sent him to check on me.” _Or, maybe it had been Anne_ , Aramis thought to himself, recollecting the sparse and cryptic words Athos had delivered after his meeting at the Louvre. “If you don't mind, I feel pretty worn out and would like to sleep. We can talk later.” He really was tired and hoped that his friends would believe his lie, he certainly looked like a man in need of a good rest. What he needed now, however, was time to think.

Both men eyed him suspiciously, but finally seemed content with what they saw. Athos withdrew to the door. “I'll see you later. I have paperwork to do anyway.”

Porthos retrieved a cup from the small table, holding it out to Aramis. “You need to drink your concoction, then you can rest. But later I want to know every word of the conversation the cardinal had with you.” Porthos placed the cup back on the table after Aramis had sipped from it. “I'll bring something to eat when you are awake again. Serge is eager to get something into you.” After looking Aramis up and down once more, Porthos left the room, too.

*******

After three days in bed, mollycoddled by his brothers, Aramis felt strong enough to leave his sickbed and get some fresh air. Naturally, he knew his friends would see this differently and so he waited for his chance. Just now Athos had checked in on him for a moment before the captain was expected to meet with the king and Tréville at the palace.

“Porthos,” Athos said in lieu of a greeting, seeing the bigger man step through the open door, and rose from his seat beside the bed. He had stolen a couple of minutes from his tight schedule to talk to Aramis and see how the marksman was doing, though technically he couldn't spare even a single minute for anything other than the war preparations. But being the commanding officer definitely also had its advantages. “I'll see you later,” Athos said to the bedridden man, adding for Porthos, “Make sure he takes his concoction and pain reliever, he's getting a little bit sloppy with it lately.”

Aramis rolled his eyes so everyone could see what _he_ thought of that. He would even go so far as to call the behavior of his friends mother-henning, not so much caring for an injured man, but nobody had asked his opinion, and so he endured without complaining.

“Aye,” Porthos replied, switching places with the captain and settling himself down for what looked like a long chat, given the way Porthos made himself comfortable.

Aramis wondered for a moment if this inefficiency only had occurred after Athos had been appointed captain of the regiment, or if it had always been so and he had just never realized it. He could not recall having ever seen such a laissez faire attitude while Tréville was responsible for the regiment. Their former captain would have given any man he had caught hanging around in the garrison without a proper task a dressing-down, and then something to do. Most likely for the rest of the week. Well, it was something he would get to the bottom to later. Right now, he had a more complex problem to solve. And Porthos was just delivering the right words, Aramis realized as he tuned in to the other man's monologue again.

“....and I have to admit, the puppy is doing it surprisingly good. The new recruits seem to like the training with him, at least more than they enjoy being thrown around the yard by me. Well, and you know how Athos is, and it's only gotten worse since his appointment, he....”

“Porthos,” Aramis interrupted, “would you mind asking Serge for a broth for me? I really feel hungry and there is nothing better than one of Serge's wonderful broths to strengthen a weak man's body.” Looking like a suffering man was a task Aramis managed very well, he didn't even have to strain himself; after all, he _was_ still suffering.

Looking a little surprised, Porthos immediately rose from his seat. “Of course.” Before he could take a step towards the door, however, Aramis spoke again.

“Please ask Serge to add some special herbs to the broth. It will help a convalescent like me to recover much faster, you'll see.”

Nodding, Porthos turned to the door, but Aramis was not done yet.

“Galangal, hyssop, lovage, tarragon. Oh, and if he could add fair-maid-of-France as well, that would be perfect. You got that all?” Aramis asked innocently, knowing it would take a while until Serge had all the things together. “But it has to be exactly those herbs, it's the combination that heals.”

Porthos stared at the marksman like he had grown a second head, but finally nodded again, muttering something like 'as long as it get's you back on your feet' on his way out. The door closed with a soft thud.

The moment Porthos was out of the door, Aramis threw back the sheets, sat up on the bedside and heaved himself up with the help of the nightstand. He felt a little dizzy once he was standing upright, but soon that was gone so he tested his right leg. Feeling a slight pull, which was not too painful, he shuffled over to the chair where his spare breeches and doublet hung over the back. Dropping on the chair, he managed to put on his breeches without too much effort. His broken hand wasn't much of a help, but didn't hinder him either. It had healed properly so far and he was sure in another week or so he would be able to start using it again. Donning his doublet was harder to manage with his shoulders still stiff, but eventually he was dressed and wearing his boots. He was ready.

Hobbling more than walking, he reached the door, halting for a moment, straightening himself with a deep breath. Then he opened the door. Luckily, no one was outside as he saw with relief. Supporting himself with one hand against the wall, he shuffled until he had reached the balcony. Looking down into the courtyard, filled with Musketeers and new recruits, he felt his heart cramp.

This. This was home. Until now, he had not known how much he missed it. He took in the sight, listening to the clattering of swords, the calls and conversations down in the yard, and the noise of a garrison filled with soldiers. He didn't want to give this up, he realized. Despite what he had thought would be right, what he had vowed to do, despite what he had told the cardinal and had tried to convince himself, he knew he belonged here and would never be happy anywhere else. He knew he could, of course, live a monk's life till the end of his days and maybe be content with it, but a part of him would always be here, regretting that he had had to leave.

Recalling what Cardinal Mazarin had talked with him about, he knew it was time to seek for an answer. He had decided to go to Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois and pray for some sign for what direction his life should take, though he had the feeling he already knew. As he was up, there was no time like the present. 

Distracted from his thoughts, he missed hearing that the noise in the yard died down, the clattering of swords stopped. When he became aware of the shift in his surroundings he lifted his head, looking directly into the eyes of d'Artagnan, the young man staring up to him with an indefinable look on his face. Or, one could even call it an angry look, Aramis thought. Putting on his most charming smile he waved down to the young man.

“What do you think you are doing?” the Gascon hollered.

“Oh, you know,” Aramis called down, “I'm admiring the view and getting some fresh air. Such a wonderful day today.” He pointed to the recruits down in the yard with d'Artagnan. “Don't you have work to do?”

Instead of an answer, Aramis saw d'Artagnan's gaze shift to somewhere beneath the balcony, and a split second later the marksman paled, realizing who it was the Gascon had turned his eyes to. Porthos.

The big man stepped out from under the balcony, following d'Artagnan's pointed stare.

Aramis waved.

The thunderous look on his friend's face only lasted for a few seconds before it changed, replaced by a blinding smile. Porthos shook his head, laughing and then made his way upstairs to his brother. “Glad to see you walking,” was all Porthos said, hugging Aramis briefly. “But you know you'll pay for this.”

“I know,” Aramis sighed. “I need to go to church, Porthos. Now. Can you come with me? Hate to admit it, but I'm not sure if I can quite manage it on my own.”

“Can you mount a horse?”

Aramis thought about that question, asked of him a second time within a short timespan, and nodded. “Yes, I guess I can.”

“Then let's go.” Porthos was already headed to the stairway starting down.

Aramis followed, not as fast and not as fluidly, but he managed it, feeling proud of the accomplishment when he made it down to the courtyard.

D'Artagnan came over, smirking, and grabbed one of Aramis' shoulders. “I certainly won't be the one to tell Athos. You know that you are dead, right?” He grinned, giving the marksman a pat on the shoulder before returning to the recruits to show them how to conduct an attack.

Porthos brought the horses and with some effort and the help of the bigger man, Aramis finally mounted and they left the garrison in a slow walk to head for Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois.

*******

Aramis entered the church, a quick glance confirming that no one was inside, and walked up to the front row. With some effort he bent his knee in front of the cross, then slid into the bench and knelt down. It hurt his leg and pulled at his wounds, but that didn't matter. What mattered now was his dialogue with God. He closed his eyes, whispering words only his Lord could hear.

Three quarters of an hour later, Aramis emerged from the church, stiff and in pain, but with an ease of mind and a moral certainty he had lacked for a long time. He could hardly walk anymore and his vision was blurry. Bracing himself against the wall he made his way towards Porthos.

Porthos rose from the shady spot where he'd been dozing, the church doors always in his line of sight. Looking Aramis up and down with a frown on his face, he untied the horses. “You alright?” he asked.

Aramis smiled lightly. “Yes. Yes I am.”

Porthos eyed him warily, not sure if he liked that display of contentment on his brother's face, despite the obvious pain the man was in. “Let's mount then. I want to be back at the garrison in time to see Athos' face when he learns of your little excursion.”

Aramis rolled his eyes and let Porthos help him up on the horse, a task that seemed much more difficult now than it had been before. Together they made their way back to the garrison at the same slow walk they had done before.

Riding through the archway, they could see Athos standing in the middle of the yard, in a heated discussion with d'Artagnan. Porthos almost pitied their young brother, seeing him bearing the brunt of their captain's anger, but it was a fleeing thought. What counted was that he was back in time to see the full show, and he would enjoy every minute of it. Porthos looked to Aramis with a sardonic grin and a knowing nod.

Athos turned around the moment the horses came to a standstill, taking in the sight before him. His icy stare, pointed at Aramis, spoke volumes, but they all knew the captain would not let it go at that. The comte could also speak daggers, if need be. And now seemed to be exactly the time Athos was willing to prove it.

However, before Athos could open his mouth to say anything, Aramis stole his thunder and spoke up. “Do I have to ask Tréville to retrieve my pauldron or is it kept in your office, captain?”

The marksman's words left everyone speechless for a moment. Whatever they had expected to happen now, this had not been on their agenda.

Aramis shifted in the saddle and looked from Athos to d'Artagnan, then turning his head towards Porthos before his eyes drifted back to Athos. “The Cardinal told me the king has already signed my re-commissioning, so that will not be a problem.” When there was still no reaction from his friends, he added, “Do you want me back or not? I'm not going to beg.”

D'Artagnan came forward with a blinding smile on his face and grabbed the marksman's forearm. “Welcome back, brother.”

Porthos erupted into a booming laughter, and not just because of the look on their captain's face when Aramis had announced his re-joining of the Musketeer Regiment. He felt all the tension and angst of the last weeks seeping out of him, now that they had Aramis back for good. 

Athos walked up to the mounted men, declaring in a flat voice, “You can fetch your pauldron from me once you are able to mount your horse without having to have Porthos heave you up. The same applies to dismounting, of course.” His mien changed and he allowed himself one of his rare, genuine smiles, the ones that came from deep inside, smoothing the sharp edges, brightening the eyes and revealing a brief glimpse of the man he had once been.

“Now that this is settled,” Aramis announced, “would one of you be so kind and help me from that beast before I faint? I'm inclined to admit that a little rest now and a good pain reliever wouldn't go amiss.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would still be weeks until every wound had healed and Athos suspected that most of the cuts on the marksman's body would leave lifetime scars. Clearly the ribs, the broken wrist and the leg hurt more than his brother was willing to admit, but Aramis was the healer and would know best what to do and what not.

Two days later, Tréville sent a missive to the garrison. Their setup had worked and they had captured two of the duke's men, currently being held in the châtelet. The duke was under house-arrest. A first questioning of the captured men hadn't brought much and Tréville asked if Aramis was fit enough to come to the châtelet to identify his presumed torturers and help with the interrogation.

Athos knocked and entered Aramis' room, finding the bed vacant and the room deserted. Returning to the balcony, he looked down into the courtyard. Aramis sat at their usual table, three new recruits grouped around him, the marksman showing them how to clean and reload a musket.

Aramis' left hand was still bound and stiff and he could only use his fingers in a restricted way, but otherwise the healing was making good progress. It would still be weeks until every wound had healed and Athos suspected that most of the cuts on the marksman's body would leave lifetime scars. Clearly the ribs, the broken wrist and the leg hurt more than his brother was willing to admit, but Aramis was the healer and would know best what to do and what not.

“Aramis,” Athos shouted down, adding, when the marksman looked up, “I need to talk to you. Do you have time?” He didn't ask explicitly, but the question hung in the air nonetheless. _Can you manage to come up or should I come down to you?_ The way he had phrased his question would give Aramis the option to answer the unspoken question without having to lose face in front of the recruits. And if the recruits wondered why the captain of the regiment asked instead of ordered one of his Musketeers, well, then Athos would make sure that next time they would be so occupied with tasks that they had no time to wonder at all. Besides, even the newly recruited Musketeers sooner or later would get to know about the four Musketeers everyone called the Inseparables and the special bond between them.

Aramis pondered for a second or two and then hollered up, “I'll be with you in a moment.” He turned to the recruits again and showed them how they should work with the muskets while he was away.

Athos allowed himself the tiniest of smiles and waited until the marksman walked over to the stairway and started up. It was far from the swift run that usually characterized Aramis' hastening up the stairs towards the captain's office, but he made it and Athos was glad to see his brother walking again without any aid. Or walking through the garrison at all.

After they had entered the office together, Athos nodded towards the stool and Aramis gladly took the offer, dropping down on the seat, looking expectantly to the elder man.

“Tréville sent a note. They captured two of the duke's men, both are in the châtelet now. It looks like one of them really is the leader you described, the one we were chasing all the time, Gaston Lecocq. Tréville asks if you can identify them.”

Aramis smiled and nodded. “This, _mon ami, _will be my pleasure.”__

“I don't know yet what took them so long to finally show up in Paris. I didn't class them as so intellectually challenged that they would search for you for more than two days, three at most. From what people told us, Lecocq also didn't strike me as a man afraid of any master, but one never knows what's going on in Flemish minds.” 

“Maybe they have been in Paris all the time and were only now able to meet with the duke.” Aramis' eyes roamed the room, then he shrugged his shoulders. “Though that’s probably unlikely. Even if they had a fixed schedule, he would have been able to contact and meet with the duke in between.” 

“Well, if you feel like it you can always ask him what took them so long.” 

“ _Peu m'importe._ He's detained, that's all that counts.” 

“Right. Take Porthos with you and report back to me when you have spoken with Tréville. I understand he is waiting at the châtelet for you. They have already started the interrogation.” 

Aramis rose from the stool. “I'm sure I can help obtain information from them. They certainly will be glad to see me again.” Aramis looked down at his bandaged hand, flexing his fingers. “I guess Porthos will lend me one hand or the other if it takes a little more persuasion to convince them of the wonderful twist of fate this coincidence holds.” He grinned dangerously, a dark glimmer flaring in his eyes. 

“ _Bon courage!”_ Somehow, Athos felt confident that this encounter would help heal some of Aramis' worst wounds, at least those they could not see so plainly.

*******

A completely exhausted Aramis and grim-faced Porthos returned to the garrison late in the evening, both men remaining silent about what had taken place in the châtelet. After Porthos had helped the marksman to his room, he returned to the courtyard, dropping down beside d'Artagnan at their usual table. Porthos gulped down a whole tankard of ale, swiping a hand over his mouth afterwards. “We'll need to return to the châtelet tomorrow for further interrogation.”

Athos' gaze conveyed the question he didn't voice when he looked Porthos in the eye. 

__“Don't worry, Aramis is fine. These bastards only need a last shove in the right direction, I'm sure by tomorrow afternoon we'll know everything we need to know.”_ _

__Nodding to Porthos, Athos raised his cup. He was content with the answer, confident that Porthos was capable of both extracting the relevant answers from the prisoners as well as assuring that Aramis came to no harm. What he knew for certain was that Porthos would make sure to avenge in a proper, painful way, even with the restricted possibilities he had, what had been done to Aramis._ _

__The three Musketeers sat a little longer in the yard, talking quietly about everything and nothing, avoiding any further mention of Aramis' torturers._ _

__“Messieurs,” Athos announced suddenly, rising from the bench, “It's late and I can't have any of my soldiers neglecting their duty tomorrow because they are hung over. Bed, it is.”_ _

__Porthos and d'Artagnan stared to their captain disbelievingly, the Gascon's hand, clutching a half-filled cup, hung forgotten in mid-air in front of the young man's face. Seeing the corners of Athos' mouth twitch a moment later, both men burst into laughter._ _

__Porthos stood up. “You almost had me there,” he grinned, slapping Athos on the shoulder. Then each man made his way to his quarters.__

 _ _*******__

 _ _Athos didn't know and didn't ask what finally made the men spill their plans, but two days later every detail was revealed about how and why the group had planned to murder the French sovereign._ _

__Aramis and Porthos returned without speaking much about the interrogation, only said that they finally had been able to extract confessions from both men._ _

__“The duke's involvement is proven beyond doubt, both men talked lengthily about every given order, why and how, and what de Ryselle had been promised in return,” Porthos explained to Athos and d'Artagnan, the Inseparables having gathered in the captain's office. “De Ryselle is in the bastille now, awaiting his trial.”_ _

__“The First Minister of France had been able to convince Louis that it would be wise to hold a court martial before executing foreign nobility,” Aramis added to Porthos' report. “I understood, from what Tréville said, it was not the first time the minister had to restrain the king for political reasons.”_ _

__“Did you find out what took them so long to come to Paris?” Athos asked. “I really can't image they searched for you that long.”_ _

__“They didn't,” Porthos replied. “Fortune smiled on us once more.”_ _

__“They had been to Paris for some days, but weren't able to inform the duke.” Aramis laughed humorlessly. ”It seems the duke was struggling with stone disease, causing him such horrible, rightfully earned pain he wasn't able to neither receive visitors nor take cognizance of any missives at all. The gate guards sent them away again and again with the hint to try it the next day.”_ _

__“We don't know if the guards weren’t involved in their master's plan and didn't know Lecocq, or if they had received orders to deny them entry until the duke was well again,” Porthos continued the report. “Fact is, Lecocq and the other guy, Verhaeren, had to hide and wait in Paris until the duke was able to receive them. Lucky for us, by then our observers were on their guard and able to capture them.”_ _

__“So they realized Aramis fled and must be alive?” d'Artagnan asked._ _

__“Not for sure, but they thought that if he had been able to flee that he would either die in the woods anyway due to his injuries, or that he might have found help somewhere and be out of reach for them. Either way, they needed to return to Paris quickly to inform their master that their plan had failed. Obviously they only searched for Aramis for less than a day before returning to Paris.” Porthos darted Athos a knowing look. “They reached Paris before us.”_ _

__All the men thought for a moment about the incredible luck or coincidence the duke's illness had been._ _

__“God moves in mysterious ways,” Aramis murmured._ _

__“Anyway, it seems they were quite talkative,” Athos voiced amusedly, imagining the kind of conversation Porthos had with the men, causing them to spill so many details._ _

__Porthos laughed, cracking his knuckles pointedly, “Yes, they became pretty chatty after a while. What remains unknown so far though is, who had been the contact and ally on the Spanish side,” Porthos picked up his report again. “They both claimed the Spaniard never told them, and said we should turn to Ryselle for answers.”_ _

__“I think they speak the truth. From what I heard of the conversations between their leader, the man called Gaston, and the Spaniard, they never mentioned any names, or talked about instigators at all. The Spaniard once or twice spoke of allies in Madrid, and Spanish agents, but nothing specific.” Aramis couldn't suppress a light shiver when speaking about Spanish agents. The memory of the overheard conversation and the looming method of torture flashing in his mind's eye for a second. “I suspect Ryselle's henchmen were not particularly interested in who was pulling strings on the Spanish side. They followed orders, that's all they were paid to do.”_ _

__“Won't matter if they told the truth or not,” Porthos added before Aramis could continue, “de Ryselle will sooner or later reveal the identity. I'm sure he is not as sturdy as his henchmen.”_ _

__“What happens to those two?” d'Artagnan asked, referring to Gaston and his companion._ _

__“They will be executed tomorrow,” Porthos declared. “Both have signed written statements, declaring their involvement as well as their master's. The duke's trial can take place without them.”_ _

__All eyes turned to Aramis, sitting on a stool beside the captain's desk and fumbling at his bandaged hand, oblivious to his brothers gazes. When no reaction from the marksman came to Porthos' statement, Athos cleared his throat. “Well, then, now that this is settled, I suggest we all return to our duties. Porthos, I need you later in the courtyard, the new recruits are a bunch of idiots. They will be dead even before we reach the Spanish border.”_ _

After Athos had assigned each man a task and sent them off, he sat at his desk for a moment, staring dead ahead. Then he collected his thoughts. Sighing audibly he pulled up a bundle of papers and dipped the quill into the ink.

*******

Aramis wasn't there when his captors lost their lives on the gallows. He felt no mercy for the men who had tormented him, but he knew he would find neither pleasure nor satisfaction in watching them hang either. They had only been following orders and he had been a victim chosen randomly. What counted was that the assassination plans had been thwarted for now and he was back where he belonged.

*******

At the same time somewhere near Guarbecque in Flanders, Floryk, vagrant and cutthroat by trade, grasped the bottle offered by one of his henchman, taking a gulp from the swill. “I don't want to hear no more of this. _Welletjes!”_ He glowered at the remaining members of the motley crew he had rallied round himself over the years.

“I only say we should've made sure that all of them were dead, Floryk,” one of the older men said. “We don't need survivors who can identify you.” 

“We shouldn't have attacked them at all. You said it would be an easy prey, Dutch merchants! It's your fault Riaan!” another one yelled now, addressing a gaunt young man. 

“It cost us three men for a poor haul. And now we'll be hunted by the duke,” another man joined in. 

“He saw you, Floryk. I daresay the duke will chase us mercilessly once he receives your description. People around here know your face.” 

“I said enough!” Floryk, the leader, roared. “The man was as good as dead anyway, why waste a bullet.” He looked around sternly. “It might have been a mistake attacking de Ryselle's men, but the duke will never know who was behind the attack and it gained us enough weapons, powder and _leeuwendaalder_ to be content with it. So stop complaining,” he hissed. His gaze settled upon Riaan. “Besides, it's not Riaan's fault if you can't tell liegemen from merchants. I was not the only one who observed them, now was I?” 

Most of his men looked sheepishly at the ground. They all had been too hungry, too starved and too eager to rob to have a second look at the victims. Three men against their gang of nine was no match at all, but the duke's liegemen turned out to be better trained than the gang had originally assumed, and it had been a short and brutal fight. After the men had been killed, three of their own lay dead on the ground, the third man from the camp who had been unarmed and more dead than alive, lay sprawled under a tree, dead or unconscious, bleeding from a bullet wound. Floryk had hied them on to grab horses, weapons, money and everything else that was useful and then they had withdrawn quickly, leaving their dead companions behind. When Rogier had drawn his pistol to put a bullet through the unconscious man, Floryk had ordered, “Put your pistol away. He's as good as dead.” They had returned to their camp and portioned out the plunder, not too unhappy that there were only six of them now instead of nine who had to share. 

Floryk once more let his gaze swipe over his men. “Pack up, we'll leave in an hour. We'll move on to Brabant.” 

Maybe it had been a mistake to let the man live, Floryk thought. But despite his reputation as a brute and slaughterman, he had once been a man of honor. None of them knew that his real name was not Floryk but Florent. He had overheard the men in the woods while spying out the camp and realized they were _Flamands_ in the pay of the _duc de Ryselle,_ holding hostage and torturing a French Musketeer. The sense of the honor he had once held had flashed through his mind. 

It was this fleeting memory of the Musketeers' honor and bravery that had made him order Rogier not to shoot that one. The Musketeer might have died in a couple of hours anyway, given the way his maltreated body had looked, but tales of the greatness of the _Mousquetaires de la garde_ also told of their brotherhood, courage and hardiness. He wouldn't deny one of them this chance should the tales of the near impossibility to kill them prove true, even if Florent had long since turned his back on his king and the land where he was born. 


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To war or not to war -- that is the question....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the final chapter.... Hope you enjoy reading it! Thank you all sooo much for reading, commenting, subscribing and leaving kudos. <3

_Epilogue_

Athos was giving orders from the balcony to some of the new recruits as Tréville rode into the Garrison. The captain nodded a greeting to the dismounting minister and returned to the office, certain Tréville would want to talk to him. He had just seated himself when he heard footsteps outside.

Half a minute later Tréville slumped in the chair, looking tiredly at Athos, throwing his hat on the papers scattered on the desk in front of him. He groaned. “I have news from the king.”

Athos raised a brow expectantly.

“The war is over.”

“What?” Athos asked surprised, “Over before it even started? Has Louis changed his mind?”

“No.” Tréville darted a quick glance at the captain. “Spain has answered. The Spanish ambassador has just been to the Louvre. Spain accepts all points on Louis' long list of claims. Flanders will be given back to France, Catalonia gains independence from the Spanish crown and will henceforth be under French intendance. The loss of its armada at the Strait of Gibraltar hit Spain hard, harder than they are willing to admit. They are not in the position to stand their ground against France if we march to her borders, long-standing allies have turned their backs on Madrid, or so they say. But first and foremost, King Philipp bowed to Louis, and not only literally; he admitted his knowledge of the plans to kill Louis with the help of Rochefort and offered 10000 gold dubloons as exculpation for this affair. And most importantly,” Tréville paused to emphasize the following words, “King Philipp accepted Louis' demand to personally come and bow to him, though the word Louis had chosen was grovel, if I remember right. Philipp suggests meeting at the Château de Hautefort for this. He is willing to sign a peace treaty with France.” Tréville scratched his head. The arrival of the Spanish entourage, and the message they had brought, had been a surprise to all of them.

Athos hurriedly closed his gaping mouth. “I can't believe this.”

“Believe it or not, it's over. None of you will have to go to war.”

Athos shook his head. “I have to tell them.” He rose from his seat to go and spread the news to his fellow Musketeers.

“One more thing.” Tréville signed Athos to stay a moment longer. “Since there will be no war, and chances are good that there will be a lasting peace treaty signed between both nations, Louis declared that he is no longer in need of a War Cabinet. He dissolved the Cabinet as of now, therefore, he is no longer in need for a Minister of War as well.” Tréville paused.

Athos looked at him in expectation.

“He appointed me commanding officer of the Musketeer Regiment again. I'm sorry, Athos, but I hope you will accept the position of my second-in-command again.” Tréville waited for a reaction from the comte.

Athos stood motionless for a moment, his face giving away none of his thoughts. His unvoiced prayers had been answered. He felt pure relief flowing through him. For once, Louis had made a decision he could outright agree to. Athos felt such an overwhelming wave of joy, based on what he'd just heard and the fact that he would no longer have to bear the weight of responsibility for a whole regiment, that he made two quick steps to Tréville and placed a kiss on his commander's brow.

Tréville looked stunned.

_Sweet Jesus, had he really just kissed Tréville?_ Athos stared at the older man, a wave of embarrassment crawling up his cheeks. That was inexcusable! He heard his brothers chuckle and groaned inwardly. Had he embarrassed himself not only in front of Tréville, but in front of his friends as well? This, they would never let him live down! When had they entered the office anyway?

Athos came around, still hearing the chuckles of his brothers. 

“Athos, I cannot remember ever once seeing Tréville asleep at his desk. Not ever, however long the day had been,” Aramis scolded him, “you'll have to learn a lot before you will be able to hold a candle to him. _Captain.”_ Aramis chuckled again.

Athos looked up. He must have fallen asleep over all that damn paperwork. Why ever had he accepted this cursed position! “What do you want, Aramis, other than grating on my nerves?” Athos replied in his ever stoic voice.

The marksman smiled, sharing a knowing look with Porthos and d'Artagnan beside him. “Tréville was here.” He paused, just for the effect. Then his face grew solemn again. “The Spanish envoy has arrived. Spain has answered. And in a rather rude way, if one can believe the words of Tréville.”

Athos looked enquiringly to his brothers. “And?”

“Louis gave orders. We march the day after St. Crispin. We'll all go to war together.”

That was not what Athos had wished to hear, especially after that embarrassingly vivid dream, but that last word Aramis had said was something he could live with nevertheless; it was all he'd ever asked for.

Together.

 

_FIN_


End file.
